


each star's a promise;

by audvocado



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Female Protagonist, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Non-Graphic Violence, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 55,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audvocado/pseuds/audvocado
Summary: she can't afford mistakes. not here; not in middle-earth.so, which is the bigger mistake: to make a deal with the devil, or to fall in love with an elf prince that can never be hers?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn | Estel/Reader, Bilbo Baggins/Reader, Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Reader, Frodo Baggins/Reader, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Gandalf | Mithrandir/Reader, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Reader, Legolas Greenleaf/Reader, Legolas Greenleaf/You, Merry Brandybuck/Pippin Took, Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee, Sam Gamgee/Reader, The Fellowship of the Ring/Original Female Character(s), Thranduil (Tolkien)/Reader, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 302
Kudos: 367





	1. don't be stupid, stupid.

I land with a dull thud on a rain-soaked street.  


_don’t panic. take a deep breath._  


It’s my own fault, really; I’d been so tired after a long shift (which involved a number of particularly irritating customers) that I hadn’t watched where I was going. I’d just flopped into the house. I didn’t even notice where I was stepping. Like an idiot.  


If it had been any other day, I wouldn’t have been so stupid. But after thirty terrorizing minutes of falling down what I could only assume was a portal to an alternate dimension, or something of the sort, I’ve come to an important decision:  


don’t be stupid, stupid.  


_scan your surroundings for immediate threats._  


I quickly survey my environment. The sky from which I fell is darkly Stygian; the clouds are pounding their wrath in unforgiving torrents upon the village where I stand. It is a lightningless storm; no glorious thunder. Only petty cruelty upon the creatures which walk the Earth. I push a wet tendril of (H/C) hair out of my eyes impatiently. Horses plod by, pulling wooden carts with squeaky wheels. People in cloaks— drab, unsaturated colors— stare at me, and I suddenly realize how much my jeans and T-shirt stand out. The squeaking of a hanging sign above me draws my attention to the fact that I’m standing outside some sort of restaurant or inn called _The Prancing Pony._  


_oh shit._  


Before I have time to question my insane situation, my brain wraps itself around the idea that perhaps I’ve truly fallen into Middle Earth. I’m familiar with the movies, and equally familiar with the books. But I have no idea what time period I’ve fallen into. If luck is on my side, Gandalf will be speaking with Thorin inside about reclaiming the Lonely Mountain; if anyone can help me, it’s one of the Istari. If luck is _really_ on my side, the One Ring will already have been destroyed and danger will have been averted.  


With the goal in mind of not being stupid, I screw my courage to the sticking place and plunge into the _Pony._

The inside is raucous and smells decidedly of sweat and cheap ale, a stench that college has acquainted me well with. A golden glow from the fire bathes the center of the room, not quite reaching the deepest crevices where mercenaries sharpen their blades. Their eyes follow me, and I shiver: the gaze of a murderer is freezingly hot. Big Folk and Little Folk alike gorge themselves on slightly stale bread and laugh loudly as tales and jokes are recounted. I weave my way towards the center with the hopes of speaking to Butterbur.  


My luck is out. There is no Butterbur.  


Instead, seated at a table and glancing furtively around, are four halflings, one of which looks suspiciously like Elijah Wood. A quick check of the corner reveals that there is a man-- Strider-- leaning back into the shadows, his face obscured by his hood, observing the hobbits.  


i’m in the movieverse.  


and I’ve landed right at the start of the war.  


I wait for Frodo to head upstairs for bed. The Ring is on a chain around his neck; the thought strikes me that he should probably be more discreet about it. Strider follows him, and I am close behind on tentative toes. I try to be quiet, but not too quiet. I know he can hear me. Of course, that’s my goal.  


As if on cue, he whips around and slams me with no small amount of force against the wall of the stairwell. I look down and realize he has a small blade pressed to my throat.  


“What business do you have with the halflings?” he demands in a low growl. He is scrutinizing me for signs of the Enemy. I eye the Evenstar pendant that hangs from his neck: even in the dim stairwell, the delicate Elvish craftsmanship glimmers. Behind a curtain of rather stringy brown hair, his eyes are sharp and wise. He is all practiced movement; unwaveringly calm wrath. He exudes authority; he will make a great King of Gondor.  


“With Frodo Baggins? None. But I am in need of your aid, Elessar heir of Isildur.” I watch with satisfaction when his eyes widen at my use of his title.  


“Speak,” he says. So I do.  
\-----  


I’m on a horse, seated in front of Aragorn, the hideous wails of the Nine lingering in dark corners of my mind. The sound was beyond anything words could describe: a high-pitched, scraping noise that twisted the lobes of my brain and forced me, trembling and sobbing, to my knees. I try (albeit to little avail) to put Weathertop and the Morgul wound behind me, to focus on the imminent prospects of Imladris. Imladris means safety, food, and a chance to unwind. Aragorn only needs to take me to Rivendell, and then we can part ways-- that was the deal. Most importantly, it means Gandalf and Lord Elrond. And they could be my ticket to getting home.  


Ahead, Arwen Undomiel is pursued by the Riders, the most beautiful being I have ever beheld. She will flood the river. If I concentrate, I can hear the powerful beating of Asfaloth’s hooves. The forest around Imladris is alive. It is burning, groping, spreading a glorious canopy of ever-green leaves towards the sky. It is whispering. Somewhere, at the heart of Middle Earth, some primal power knows I am an alien.  


I clutch my arm. I, too, have been grazed by the bitter sword of the Nazgul. The taste of mortality is sour in my mouth. With every thundering hoofbeat, the wound throbs.  


The waters have already receded at the Ford of Bruinen when we arrive. Merry, Pippin, and Sam seem rather disconcerted at the notion of crossing a river on horseback; I soon learn why. They don’t want to sully the remaining Old Toby they have. I chuckle, and the others laugh with me.  


And then my laughter catches and retreats back into my throat.  


Because before us, Rivendell rises in golden spires, stretching towards a sky that is the precise color of forever.

We are greeted by a host of elves. A pretty elleth, all willowy lines and gentle curves, bustles in to scoop Frodo up and hurry him away, presumably to some sort of infirmary. Arwen dismounts her horse with all the grace characteristic of elves. Her grey cloak shimmers faintly: Elvish craftsmanship. They don’t even seem to walk; they float. Somewhere behind the flawless alabaster film that is their skin, the light of the stars makes them glow. Their stares remind me.  


I am an alien.  


Aragorn departs immediately with Arwen, and I smile knowingly. Their love is not the love of man, hasty and lustful. It is pure and patient: the heart of elvendom. I remember, with a start, that Isildur’s heir was raised as Estel by Lord Elrond. The hobbits follow the remaining elves for a meal. I tag along, then on second thought, call, 

“Lindir!”  


The elf turns, chestnut hair swirling in the clean Rivendell breeze, and approaches me. I am struck by how tall elves are, and I fight a girlish flush that creeps up my neck, bringing an uncomfortable warmth with it-- he really is good-looking.  


“I need to speak with Lord Elrond.”  


He regards me silently for a minute, taking in my strange clothing. His eyes dart to my forearm. The Morgul wound is dripping blood onto the pristine floor.  


His voice is silvery. “Come.”

Lord Elrond barely looks up from his scrolls. “Lindir.”  


The ellon nudges me forwards. I stumble a little, then straighten. “Mae l’ovannen, Lord Elrond.”  


“Hello,” he says, observing me. His gaze is unnervingly calm. I try not to cower. His face is at once old and young. So many years-- almost too many years-- show their passing in his eyes. “You are not familiar to me. You do not speak in the manner of the West. What is your name?”  


If I can trust anyone, it’s Elrond Peredhel. “Y/N L/N. I am in desperate need of aid.”  


“Explain, child.”  


“I’ll cut straight to the chase. I’m not from the West. I’m not even from Middle Earth. I’m from a place called Earth, and I need to get back.”  
He is silent. His ageless face betrays no emotion, but I can sense conflicting emotions. Finally, he speaks. “How did you arrive here?”  


“I was coming home from work. It was, oh, maybe eight o’clock. I opened the door to my house, stepped inside, and just.. fell, I suppose. Through a portal. I must’ve been falling for--”  


I realize that I don’t really know how long I was falling for. It felt like a long time, thirty minutes at least, but it could’ve been seconds. Or years. I’ve read enough to know that magic twists perception.  


“For how long?” he prompts me. The sound jolts me out of my thoughts.  


“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “Like I said, it was some sort of portal. Magic. I don’t think there’s any way of knowing.”  


He nods, but says nothing. I can’t help but be slightly infuriated with his silence. Isn’t he going to do anything? Isn’t he going to help?  


“Child,” he begins, finally, and I subconsciously lean forwards. Another time, any other time, I would have loved to visit Middle Earth. Just not at the beginning of a war. I’m ready to go home.  


“My apologies.”  


_What?_  


“There is still hope for you to return. But that future is fading quickly. And it is, frankly, beyond my help.”  


Some crumpled perversion of a smile crosses my face for a brief second before I realize he’s not joking. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. It’s not possible. This isn’t happening. I tried, I tried so hard not to be stupid. But I placed all my eggs in one basket. And that was stupid, so, so, stupid of me.  


Salt water blurs my vision and pricks at my eyes, hot and shameful. I careen backwards, whirl around, willing the tears not to fall, choking on dry sobs. And then I collapse, much to my embarrassment,into Lindir. His touch is solid and grounding.  


I take a last look over my shoulder at Elrond. His brow is creased in sympathy.  


“Truly?” I manage to gasp out. “There’s nothing?”  


Palms up, he replies. “I am sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> made some edits :) still coming to terms with ao3 formatting since this is my second fic, like ever, and also i've deadass never finished one. but i'm going to finish this one. swear on the stars. expect a set chapter number by the end of this week. k bye, lovely readers


	2. did it hurt when you fell from heaven?

The baths of Rivendell smell emphatically Elvish: like clean air, and the outdoors, and morning dew. Something about it is at once rich and refreshing. Clean notes of lavender and rose waft from the vial of liquid castile soap on the marble counter. 

The bathroom is unexpectedly spacious and airy, and empty, and quiet. Every sound is an echo against the cool stone surfaces of the floor and countertops. I can literally swim in the water; it is comfortably warm and constantly running, like a tiny stream. Rose petals float on the surface of the water; their fragrance is delicate and pure. The sensation of massaging suds into my hair is a familiar one, even if my life has been turned upside down. Now is the time to regroup. I probably won’t have an opportunity like this again. 

My first plan of action will be to consult with Gandalf. Even if he cannot send me back to my home country, he is a Maia. His counsel might just cover some points that I can’t think of myself. 

I’m not making the mistake of pinpointing all my hopes on one person again. If Gandalf can’t send me back, I don’t really see any other choice but to continue with the Fellowship. Assuming I don’t die on the Pass of Caradhras, or in Moria, the Lady Galadriel is probably the best bet I have. 

If Galadriel or Celeborn can’t help me, I guess Saruman would be my last resort. I doubt Theoden King or Denethor of Gondor would be able to do much. 

Now to take stock of my supplies. My purse is on the counter nearby and I rifle through it impatiently: my phone, which is useless, a pan of lip and cheek stain, useless, my wallet, useless, two tubes of lipstick, again useless, my Fitbit, similarly useless, and my car keys, also useless. I also have a can of pepper spray. I make a mental note to use it sparingly. Sunglasses: not sure if I will be able to use those. To my delight, I find hair ties, Chapstick, a Swiss Army knife, matches, a small first aid kit, pads (joy of joys!) and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. (Because any student knows that gum can brighten any mood.) 

I step out of the bath, having scrubbed all the grime and mud away. I feel reborn. I wrap myself in a towel, which really is more of a bedsheet in my opinion, and dry my feet. There are tiny pots on the counter. I peer into one and find some sort of cream that smells of sage. Another yields what I think is aloe vera gel. 

After tending my skin and applying a tiny bit of lipstick from my purse to my lips and cheeks (because why not), I decide to braid my hair on a whim. It’s a half-up, half-down style, a little Tauriel-esque, and it makes me instantly feel more Elvish. 

Of course, a dress has been laid out for me. What a classic LOTR fanfiction trope. I truly feel like I’ve fallen not into Middle Earth, but into Wattpad. As long as they don’t make me screw an anime character, I think I’ll be fine. I’m not one to whine: the dress is pretty, and light, so it’s fairly comfortable. (It’s not leggings by a long stretch, but it’ll do.) It’s white and floor-length, with a modest neckline. The sheer silky fabric clings to my curves. And it has _pockets._ I can’t complain. 

“You’ve had… quite a transformation,” says Lindir when I come downstairs. I grin a little bit. Pippin Took snickers a little, but Merry shushes him swiftly. The table is piled high with fresh salad, and some sort of warm, soft bread that tastes distinctly of butter, and flaky white fish, much to my confusion. I thought elves were vegetarian, but I guess not. There’s also alcohol in no small quantity, but I pass. I never liked alcohol much, and I don’t want to get drunk and wake up with a hangover. Or make a fool of myself. 

I scan the dining hall for Gandalf and find him seated at the high table with Elrond, Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam (the latter seems quite bashful). I don’t want to make waves and draw attention to the fact that I’m not native to West Beleriand, or Middle Earth at all. So I stay seated. 

I don’t regret it. A tall man, ruggedly handsome, comes and takes a seat beside me. He is fair in the most literal sense of the word: his hair is strawberry blond, not quite light enough to look Sindar, and his skin is similarly light. His manners are pleasant, and he moves with a certain self-assuredness that I find quite attractive. I turn towards him and cross my legs. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“What?” The man’s question yanks me out of my careful examination of him. 

“When you fell from heaven.” 

I can’t help but giggle. It’s such a cheesy line, but it sounds nice coming out of his mouth. Although (I suppose) anything in a British accent would sound nice. A faint, tell-tale blush spreads over my cheeks. Lindir doesn’t miss it. He grins and nudges his friend, and I glare a little. 

“Yes, actually,” I respond, to his surprise. “It hurt quite a bit. I landed in a mud puddle. Outside the Prancing Pony.” 

Merry and Pippin’s chuckles have turned into full-on chortles. The man laughs with them before introducing himself. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he says. “I am Boromir, son of Denethor, of Gondor.” 

I freeze. 

_i know this story. i know how this is going to go. and i know that the quest could fail if i meddle. fate is not to be toyed with._

But this man is not the Boromir that the books or the movies depict. He is gentler, kinder, funnier. I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to let fate take his life. He is doomed, and I could act on that knowledge, but by doing so I could doom all of Middle Earth. 

“My lady?” 

“Oh,” I laugh, trying to play it off. “Sorry. I’m a little spacey. The wine’s really good.” 

“But you haven’t had any wine--” Pippin is shushed once again by Merry. 

“Sorry,” I repeat. “What was it you asked?” 

“I don’t believe I caught your name,” says Boromir, smiling at the hobbits’ antics. 

“I don’t believe I threw it.” 

His laugh makes my heart melt into my stomach. 

\----- 

The sun reaches languid rays out to brush the skin of my face, gently rousing me from the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. I dreamt that I had fallen through a portal into Middle Earth. 

_what a strange dream._

I crack an eye open, find that there is no roommate standing over me to hurry me to class, and lazily slide the eye shut again. Then, with a start, I come to the sudden and electrifying realization that I’m not in my room. 

I sit bolt upright and wildly take in my unfamiliar surroundings. Then it all floods back to me: I’m in Rivendell. And there is potentially, probably, no way of getting back home. My arm throbs: although the elves did a stellar job of patching it up, a Morgul wound can never fully heal. Unhelpful crocodile tears well in my eyes and threaten to spill over, but I take a steadying breath and force them back, focusing on compartmentalizing my sadness. Hysteria and emotion help no one. In a dangerous situation, I need to stay methodical. 

_at least there’s boromir._

True. We’d meandered around the gardens of Rivendell last night. He plucked a flower, starry silver, from a tree branch and tucked it behind my ear. A promise, he said. When he brought me to my room, he made no advances. I had never encountered anyone so gentlemanly. 

“Y/N,” I’d said. 

“Pardon?” 

“That’s my name. Y/N.” 

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Good night, Lady Y/N.” He bent and brushed his lips, feather-lightly, across the back of my hand. I went to sleep happy. 

At least there’s Boromir. 

I spring out of bed, wash my face, and brush my teeth. It’s a little silly, but I try my best to make my footsteps lithe and liquid, almost rolling across the floor as the elves do. I only have time to pull on my dress, a dainty, filmy affair in a pale blue, before Pippin bursts in with a huge, goofy smile stretching his face. 

“Frodo’s awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no leggy still. sorry. he'll show up within the next two chapters, i swear. also i'm planning to have the number of chapters planned out by like... tomorrow? probably? depends on whether i can finish another chapter by tomorrow. i know these are super short, sorry bro. c u later, delightful alligators


	3. that you may contribute a verse.

“Frodo’s awake!” 

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. In a moment, I’m sailing madly out of my room and into Frodo’s. The two hobbits are scampering close at my heels. Sunlight streams through the halls of Rivendell. My footsteps are resoundingly heavy, almost out-of-place in such a graceful setting, but I don’t care. I’m glad that he’s healed. 

And more importantly, I need to speak to Gandalf. 

He is there, of course. The lines around his eyes, rumpled beard, wild grey hair, and wizened staff are so characteristic of Mithrandir that I want to laugh and cry at the same time. Something about his expression, about the way he carries himself, emanates a feeling of power, of age. The question crosses my mind, briefly, of _how can someone be so_ human, _yet so divine?_

He regards me thoughtfully. “Good day. I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“Hello, Mith--” I falter. 

There is an inhuman _voice_ scraping against the inside of my skull. 

For a minute, I mistake it for my own thoughts. But it isn’t a language I’ve learned before-- although, somehow, I can understand it perfectly. It has my voice. But it isn’t me. 

\- Hello, Y/N. 

_who are you?_

\- Your ticket out of Middle-Earth. 

My breath catches in my throat and I choke, eyes wide. How? Who is this voice? I’m frozen for a second before fresh, auroral joy floods through every nerve ending, every vein in my body, crashing through my heart, pooling in my stomach. The sky cries its glory. I can go home. Live my life. See my family. Eat ice cream. It’s good news, great news, amazing news! 

It’s amazing news. Almost too amazing to be true. 

I freeze again. That voice is my voice, but that is _not_ me. 

It’s coming from the Ring. 

My hopes come crashing down, but I won’t let it shake me. I roll my shoulders back. I can fight orcs. And I can fight the power of the Ring. I have to, for my sake and for the sakes of everyone around me. This will come down to how strong my mind can be. I know it. 

Gandalf smiles benignly, as if reading my mind and sensing my inner turmoil. “You don’t have to tell me who you are. Lord Elrond has already taken the liberty of pointing you out. You must be Y/N.” 

“That I am,” I say. Somehow, I can sense that he is trustworthy. And that he will be a powerful ally. For such an old man, I feel so much _life_ coming from him. Frodo’s energy seems subdued, depleted in a way, but he’s been bedridden for a while, and also poisoned. And he bears the greatest burden there is in Middle-Earth. 

“So,” I announce, breaking the short silence with an air of finality. “I suppose Lord Elrond has also told you of my… rather singular plight.” 

“He has.” 

“Is there anything you can do?” I fight to keep a tone of hopefulness out of my voice. I don’t want to come across as naive. And I brace myself for the worst. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” he starts, and I sigh. I feel warmth and concern radiating from him. I try not to be too disappointed; after all, I prepared for this. But I can’t help feeling upset. 

“That’s alright,” I say, more of an exhale than a voice. I pointedly avoid his eyes for fear of crying. I never cry this much. Never, ever. And I can’t start now. 

He rubs my back. Frodo and the other hobbits look crestfallen, and I bravely attempt a smile at them. Sam smiles back, all brotherly compassion. He truly is the Fellowship at ninety-nine percent strength. The sun surrounds him in a golden halo. I think of how he will be Middle Earth’s saving grace, its guardian angel, and smile genuinely this time. 

\----- 

I’m sitting outside, admiring the gardens and chatting with Lindir. He and I have become fast friends; as I talk to him about technology from my world, he braids my hair. I’m telling him about the divine taste of (favorite flavor) ice cream. 

“No offense, of course, Lindir,” I assure him. He chuckles. “But your Elvish bread is no match for the exquisitely delicate, melt-in-your-mouth, sensational, inspirational, fragrant and fruity, rich and superior flavor of ice cream.” My laughter mounts as my sentence progresses, and by the end of it, I’m howling so hard I can barely speak. Lindir is laughing too, a rare occurrence for an elf. The brilliant grin on his face makes him look less elven and more human, almost _cute._ If it weren’t for Boromir… 

I force my thoughts down like bile. How can I think like that, especially of someone who I know is destined to die? 

“Lady Y/N?” 

I look up. There’s an unfamiliar elleth at the gates of the garden. 

“Lord Elrond has requested your presence in his study.” 

\----- 

I am struck by how comfortable, how homelike, his study is. It reminds me of the library at college: classical, elegant wooden architecture and tall shelves stocked with more books and scrolls than I could ever imagine. Elrond is at his desk, poring over a thick green leather-bound tome. I perch myself on a plush armchair and cough lightly. He looks up, unperturbed. 

“Hello, Y/N.” His aura is gentle and verdant. I let it soothe me. 

“Lord Elrond.” I bow my head slightly. 

“Are you alright?” I look at him, a little startled at his question. He takes in my response, and adds, “I understand you have gone through a great deal within the past two days. I only wished to make sure you were as comfortable as possible.” His voice is musical and penetrating, but a wave of sorrow washes over me at his words. I wrestle the emotion (something I find myself doing more often since I landed in Middle-Earth) before responding. 

“I assure you, Lord Elrond, that I am quite alright.” A lie. He seems to sense it. His energy shifts slightly, and he hums in skeptical understanding. 

An awkward silence. 

“So…” I say, trying to ease the tension. “What were you reading before I disturbed you?” 

“You weren’t a disturbance at all,” he says. “I could hear you coming. But it’s poetry.” 

“What poem?” 

_“O me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,”_ he intones, by way of response. I lean back into the armchair. 

_Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,_

_Of myself forever reproaching myself (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)_

_Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean of the struggles ever renew’d,_

_Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,_

_Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,_

_The question, O me! so sad, recurring-- What good amid these, O me, O life?_

_“Answer,”_ he says, and I finish his sentence. 

_“That you are here--”_ I take a trembling breath-- _“that life exists and identity, / That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”_

And when we make eye contact, I know he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, again. poem is o me! o life! by walt whitman, greatest american poet of all time. read him. u wont regret it. toodles, fair readers.


	4. a steinway? in middle earth?

I have come to the embarrassing realization that I haven’t so much as acknowledged Arwen Undomiel since Weathertop. And so I am going to her quarters, hoping to gain a friend. 

She can hear me coming, of course. She is waiting at the door when I arrive. I smile at her, a little tentatively. Hobbits, I can understand. Aragorn is a fully fleshed-out character in both the movies and books. Lord Elrond and Gandalf have warm, cozy spirits that set me at ease. Boromir and I understand each other better than I think I have ever understood anyone in my life. 

Arwen? Not so much. 

So I am relieved when she smiles back. She invites me into her chambers. Her dress, a diaphanous crimson, trails behind her. She has a serene, aristocratic bearing, and she glides rather than walks across the floor. I can only wish for poise like that. I tell her so. 

“Oh, don’t,” she says, a little bashfully. Her eyes twinkle. “You’re unusually graceful for a daughter of Man.” 

I beam with pleasure at the compliment. “Thank you, Lady Arwen.” 

“Please don’t call me lady.” 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say!” I laugh. She’s amiable and friendly; much more so than most people I know from my world. 

“Can I braid your hair?” she asks. I nod, and she sits criss-cross applesauce behind me. Her fingers massage my scalp nimbly. What is it with elves and hair-braiding? 

“Do you want to tell me about Boromir?” I look back at her. She’s grinning cheekily. My ears turn red. Is it that obvious? 

“There’s nothing between us,” I lie. She makes a _tsk_ sound. 

“You can’t lie to us elves,” she says. “We can sense when someone’s lying. It’s ancient elven magic.” 

“Really?” 

“No,” she admits. “That was a lie. But be honest. What’s between you and him?” 

“I think he’s… good-looking,” I confess. “He’s quite gentlemanly and easy to talk to. He is also very funny. And I like spending time with him. Of course,” I add, “it’s nothing like you and Aragorn.” 

If elves could blush, Arwen would be flaming crimson. “He’s… unlike other Men,” she says. 

“I wonder what it’s like.” 

“What what’s like?” 

“To love someone so much you could love them for all the ages of the Earth. To love them enough to sacrifice your immortality for them.” 

She is silent. Then, “My ada does not like it. But I know my heart. I would rather spend one lifetime with him--” 

“--than face all the ages of this world alone,” I finish. She nods. Her eyes are glistening a little. She wipes them with the back of her sleeve, and ties off the braid. 

We spend a wonderfully idle time together, talking about nothing in particular. She tells me about how she met Aragorn, back when he was Estel. I tell her about my world. Logically, I know I should be talking about cars and planes and cell phones and atomic collision machines, but I find myself talking about ice cream more than anything. (Because, frankly, I miss ice cream more than anything… besides my family, of course.) 

And then it’s dinnertime. Reluctantly, I hoist myself off her bed. She stretches like a cat in the sun, and does the same. 

“A word of advice, Y/N,” she calls, and I turn on my way out the door, looking at her inquisitively. “I would keep your origin private.” 

“Of course,” I say. No one _really_ knows. Other than Lindir, Gandalf, Aragorn, the halflings, Lord Elrond, and maybe Boromir. 

On second thought, maybe I could be more covert. 

\----- 

I could get used to this Elvish food. I’m sitting next to Boromir again. He regales me with tales of his conquests under Denethor, his father, and about the times he’s spent with his brother, Faramir. 

“To be honest,” he says, pushing a piece of fish around with the back of his fork, “I miss Faramir more than anything.” 

I nod in sympathy. I can understand: it feels like I’ll never see my family ever again. “I miss my family, too.” 

“You have family back home?” I nod. “Where are you from?” 

“Oh,” I say, racking my brain for a believable lie. “I’m, uh, a delegate from the East. I was sent to Rivendell to consult with the White Council about how to move forwards… with impending war and all.” I fight the urge to squirm, and try my best to maintain eye contact with Boromir. 

Lindir smirks. The little shit. 

“Ah,” says Boromir, smiling. Luckily, he seems to believe me. I don’t sense any suspicion coming from him. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your hair looks nice like that.” 

“Thank you,” I say, blushing. “Your hair _always_ looks nice.” I ignore Lindir, who is now making faces at me from behind Boromir. 

Our knees are touching. I try to ignore it, but it’s making my heart race. Arwen is watching me and winking from the high table. I roll my eyes at her. 

“Do you have someone waiting for you at home?” I ask, trying to make conversation. 

“No,” he says. “Only my brother and father. Unless _you_ want to go to Gondor and wait for me there, which is fine by me.” His smirk is insufferable. 

“Are you insinuating that you want to send me away from Rivendell in order to separate us?” I tease. 

He places a hand over his heart, feigning affrontedness. “Never, my lady!” We’re both laughing now. He leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “In fact, if you left, I would be inclined to abandon Rivendell as well.” 

I pretend to be shocked. “Against your father’s will?” 

“Forget my _father,” _he says, in a devil-may-care tone of voice. “I have a beautiful lady.”__

__\-----_ _

__I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it happens._ _

__It’s hard to be alone. I can’t be left alone. When I’m alone, it comes over me, a tidal wave, drowning me out with its staggeringly mournful drumbeats. I’m sinking, there’s salt water in my eyes, it’s running down my face and my dress, and _fuck_ why is it so hard to breathe? _ _

___i can’t breathe. i can’t breathe. ican’tbreathican’tbreatheicantbreatheicant--_ _ _

__I’m staggering into a corner, sobbing, it’s everywhere. i can’t escape it. a white, uncaring sky cries “mother, mother,” and its tears burn me. help me, help me, i’m lost!_ _

__i stagger out into the hallway. my footsteps are endless, they’re surrounding me, confusing me, whirling like wayward winds around my head, throttling me, screaming in my ears. i’m going deaf._ _

___i need my mom. but she isn’t here._ _ _

___not in this world._ _ _

__the panic is building like bile in my throat, black and unforgiving, pale. it snarls. its teeth are on me. a flash of pain like a blunt knife carving out my heart from the inside; i’m screaming, i want it to stop, where is my mother, i need to get out, there’s no way out, help me, help, help, help--_ _

__And suddenly, I’m myself again._ _

__I’ve wandered into a room with a piano._ _

__It’s a stark and beautiful specter of another world. There is a thin film of dust on the black keys; I wipe it gingerly, reverentially away. It’s distinctly Elvish in design: it’s palely translucent, delicately fluted, and it plays with the light, opalesque. I prop up the lid. The movement causes a trillion incandescent glimmers of light to flux through the piano and seat themselves, twinkling radiantly, on the walls of the room. The dampers are the glassiest, most brilliant silver I’ve ever seen; a test press of the pedals reveals that they glide like a swan over ice. _Mithril._ The rainbows it casts across the room dance when I approach the piano. It’s waiting for me. _ _

__Miraculously, the fall board reads _Steinway._ How did a Steinway piano get to Middle Earth? _ _

__There is music on the music rack. I don’t need it. Tenderly, I press the middle C. I don’t have perfect pitch, but some ancient instinct tells me that the piano is perfectly in tune, and will be until the end of the world. The note rings, clear and true and crystalline, through the halls of Rivendell._ _

__Time to play out my frustrations._ _

__The beginning of the piece is soft, a short, elegant motif with a melancholy sensation._ _

__And then all hell breaks loose._ _

__The notes deluge, thunder, run like a rapid river over the piano. My hands can barely move quickly enough to keep up with it: but such was the prodigious talent of Chopin. It is all-consuming: a blizzard, a winter wind, that tumbles through the trees, stripping them bare of leaves, tinkling through icicles and slamming full-force against the sheer sides of a mountain. Simple as nature, intricate as the human mind, deliciously rollicking, screaming, whispering, I pour out my sorrow and my anger and channel them through the keys. A few wrong notes, and I play still more furiously. It is ravenous, melodic. Blunt and delicate. It is me._ _

__A crowd has gathered. The halflings have seated themselves beside the piano; a number of elves, and Boromir, are crowded around outside the door. Elrond watches me with some unfamiliar form of paternal pride. The song turns sweet, then cold, wintry and biting. I haven’t played this since a rehearsal two years ago, but muscle memory carries me through. The melody sends thrills racing up my spine._ _

__I finish with a cascading flourish. The room is silent._ _

__Applause._ _

__I didn’t ask for this, but I can’t deny that it’s nice. I allow myself to crack a small smile, and do a playful, theatrical bow. Lindir laughs at me. I swat at him. Boromir drapes an arm around my shoulders._ _

__I feel rejuvenated. And, strangely enough, exhausted. My fingers are a tad cramped. I prepare to head up to bed. But before I do, I catch a glimpse of something strange._ _

__Silvery, platinum-blond hair._ _

___A Sindar?_ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooh guess who it is.... lol everyone knows. oof. btw, the song is winter wind (etude 25, no 11) by chopin. no, i can't play it. bit of a big jump from alla turca ahaha. leave kudos or whatever. also comment if ur interested in being a beta reader. see u tomorrow, lovely readers :)


	5. moonlilies.

The next day finds me back in Elrond’s study. We are in a state of peaceful coexistence: he is reading poetry aloud while I am sprawled, languorously, across what has become my favorite chair. 

_“If you can keep your head when all about you_

_Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;_

_If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,_

_But make allowance for their doubting too;_

_If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,_

_Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,_

_Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,_

_And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;_

_“If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;_

_If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;_

_If you can meet with triumph and disaster_

_And treat those two impostors just the same;_

_If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken_

_Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,_

_Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,_

_And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;_

_“If you can make one heap of all your winnings_

_And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,_

_And lose, and start again at your beginnings_

_And never breathe a word about your loss;_

_If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew_

_To serve your turn long after they are gone,_

_And so hold on when there is nothing in you_

_Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;_

_“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,_

_Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;_

_If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;_

_If all men count with you, but none too much;_

_If you can fill the unforgiving minute_

_With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—_

_Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,_

_And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!”_

I stretch out, deep in thought. Elrond scrutinizes my face. 

“So?” he says, finally. “What did you think?” 

“If you can dream--” I repeat, “and not make dreams your master.” 

“Yours is the Earth,” he says, smiling. 

I look at him. “If I can fill the unforgiving minute.” 

“I have a feeling,” he tells me, “you will fill a good many unforgiving minutes in the years to come.” 

\----- 

I’m back in the gardens. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon; the last of sunset’s rosy hues bathe the flowers in rich amber light. The edges of the clouds, puffy and cool, are painted pale coral. Dusk brings a serene, warm blue over the top of the sky. There are white lilies on the bushes; they glow softly as if by magic. Somehow, they have a calm aura: almost as if they are people, I can sense their feelings. The forest is whispering, but it harbors no ill will towards me anymore. 

I am coming to terms with fate. 

I know my own emotions regarding fate; I detest the idea of my future being set in stone. But this story is well-worn: each moment from here on out is accounted for. I need to force myself to accept the fact that I will have to turn a blind eye, I will have to let lives go. Gandalf. Boromir. Theodred. Haldir. Theoden. 

Screw my _emotions_ towards fate. This is going to have to be analytical, methodical, tactical, businesslike. Almost apathetic. 

Gandalf needs to die. He’ll come back, of course. It needs to happen, because he needs to become the White Wizard to free Rohan from Saruman’s dominion. 

Theodred, too, needs to die. Theoden and Eowyn need that push of courage. 

Does Haldir have to die? 

_does boromir?_

I know he does. I should listen to my head. But my heart wants to tell me that he doesn’t. That no harm will come if he survives. I know if he does, there’s a chance Merry and Pippin won’t end up in Fangorn, and then Orthanc will never be destroyed. But there is another future, as well. One where he survives and lives to fight the armies of Sauron. One where the Ring is destroyed and Boromir can return to Gondor. To Faramir. 

To me. 

I allow one single tear to slide, lonely and bitter, down my cheek. 

The forest laughs and laughs. 

I pick a single flower from the bush next to me. 

“What are you doing?” 

I jump. I didn’t hear anyone in the garden. I turn to see a tall, silvery gold-haired elf behind me. He is the spitting image of Orlando Bloom, if Orlando Bloom was platinum blond. 

“Legolas Greenleaf,” I say. Only an elf could sneak up on me like that. 

“That is a moonlily,” he says. “They are not meant to be _picked._ There are few left in Arda. And they lose their life magic, their _fea,_ when you pick them. Only the Eldar can grow them. You should not end life so wantonly; they have emotions as well.” 

I look down. Sure enough, the flower’s glow has faded. I feel no emotion coming from it anymore. The rest of the bushes are angry at me. It feels like being glared at by a human being. 

“It’s a flower,” I protest. “They can always grow more. Jesus.” Something about this elf puts me on edge. 

He crosses his arms. “You would not say the same of a human.” 

“Would I?” 

Swift as a sparrow, his bow is out and an arrow is nocked. I peer down the shaft: the point is aiming straight at my heart. 

“You would,” he says, a little triumphantly. 

That irritates me. Out of all the things I can’t stand, people who assume they’ve won an argument, people who jump to conclusions and judge others recklessly, those people are the worst. 

I glare at him. “You would judge life based on one action?” 

“Do not presume to lecture me on the judgement of sentient life.” 

I tuck the flower behind my ear. I cannot outsmart a two-thousand-year-old immortal being. “Fine. Whatever. Good night, Thranduilion.” 

“Good night,” he says, with a hard edge to his tone. He almost snarls it. Then he stalks off like a jungle cat. 

What a dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "if" by rudyard kipling. another great poem and one of my favorites. i highly encourage u lovely people to go read some poems and not my crappy fanfics lmao. also, when i said enemies to lovers, i meant *enemies* to lovers. sorry for not posting yesterday. had a grad ceremony. adieu, fair readers!


	6. a secret council.

“Act natural!” 

The hiss from behind me is anything but covert, especially in the empty halls of Rivendell. I turn on my heel to see two brown-haired elves, nearly identical, staring at me. One has his hand clapped over his mouth. 

I look between them in confusion. 

“Elladan Elrondion,” says one, bowing gracefully. I can only nod slowly. “This fool is my brother.” 

“Elrohir Elrondion,” says the other, letting his hand drop from his mouth. Then, in unison, “At your service.” 

“...Were you stalking me?” 

They inform me that yes, they have been stalking me. For my entire stay, in fact. I wonder briefly if they’ve watched me flirt with Boromir. Or fight with Legolas. Or bathe. They go on, then, to tell me that there is a secret council tomorrow. 

“We’re invited, of course--” 

“--being the sons of Elrond.” They have a habit of finishing each other’s sentences. 

“But of course,” adds Elladan, “you should be there too, dear Y/N. There’s talk of a fellowship. Our father doesn’t think it’s safe to go. So he’s trying to keep you from attending the council.” Elladan is grinning madly. I am acutely reminded of the Weasley twins. They both are up to something. I know it. 

“So…?” 

“I know, I know. Why should you trust us? But trust me, we have a plan.” 

“If it’s not successful,” pipes up Elrohir, “it’ll be hilarious.” 

“What do you mean, a _plan?_ And if Elrond doesn’t think I should be there, then I probably shouldn’t be there.” Even I can hear the reluctance behind my tone. Something in me wants to go to the council. I want to be the tenth walker. Maybe, that way, I can save Boromir. 

“Don’t be so logical, dear Y/N,” says Elrohir. “Pragmatism is the essence of the killjoy.” 

“That’s not even a saying.” 

“I just said it, which makes it a saying.” 

I gape at him. “That’s not how it works.” 

“It just worked, though, didn’t it?” 

“No, not at all.” 

“Well, that doesn’t matter. We need to focus and be practical here.” 

“Didn’t you just tell me not to be?” This guy has the most chaotic energy I’ve ever encountered in one person. It’s kind of refreshing, to be honest. 

“No, not at all,” parrots Elrohir. “Anyway, there are vents in the floor of the place where the council is meeting.” 

“Don’t tell me you expect me to _climb through_ the vents.” 

\------- 

A few hours later, I’m climbing through the Rivendell ventilation system. Elrohir is behind me: only Elladan is attending the council…. except that Elrohir is attending the council, but in secret. The logic behind this is that Elrohir is the irresponsible one, so he’d be more likely to forget about a super-important council that will decide the fate of Middle Earth. 

As we approach the veranda where the meeting is taking place, Elrohir warns be to be quiet and not to hit my head on the vent, or it’ll move and everyone will know. I nod wordlessly and head up. The vertical climb is aided somewhat by notches in the sides of the vent that serve as makeshift footholds, but my arms are burning anyway. 

“...does not simply walk into Mordor,” says a familiar voice. Boromir. I curse myself silently for missing the _one does not simply_ line. “Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep and the Great Eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland riddled with fire, and ash, and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not even ten thousand Men could do this. It is folly.” 

_Oh, Boromir. Not ten thousand men. But, perhaps, two hobbits._

A posh British accent cuts through the air like a knife, if knives came in the form of particularly irritating blond Sindar princes. “Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The ring must be destroyed!” Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I will him with every remaining brain cell I possess to shut up and never open his mouth again. 

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to do it?” Attaboy, Gimli. 

“And if we fail? What then?” Boromir is audibly inflamed. I can’t blame him: with a batshit crazy father who constantly kicks around his beloved brother, and all the years of his life wasted on fighting for a kingless kingdom in a state of exponential decline as the Dark Lord repeatedly strikes them, anyone would want to use the Ring. Even from here, I can feel its influence: it knows my name. It calls to me. It is both terrifying and comforting. “What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?” 

“I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an elf! Never trust an elf!” There is a thud as Gimli leaps to his feet. I flinch. So does Elrohir. 

And that is our downfall. 

A mithril coin slips-- teeters on the edge of his pocket-- falls. As if in slow motion, I watch it tumble down the shaft into darkness. It clanks against the sides of the vent with deafeningly loud _plink_ noises. 

The argument above us screeches to a halt. 

“I’m okay!” cries Elrohir, just as I hear Elladan mutter “Oh shit” from the veranda. 

“Y/N,” says Elrond sharply. 

I freeze. 

“You can come out now.” 

I do as he says, reaching up to move the vent cover and hoisting my torso out so that I’m halfway in the vent. Elrohir’s head pops up behind me soon afterwards. Lindir, Boromir, and Elladan are laughing. Bilbo Baggins is straight-up cackling. Elrond regards me sternly. And Legolas is full on glowering at me. 

“Hi,” I squeak out. 

“What about the halflings?” demands Elrohir, and Merry and Pippin shuffle out from behind a moonlily bush. The latter sticks out his tongue at me. _My hiding spot was better,_ I mouth. 

I watch as Frodo gathers up his courage and stands up, bravely. He looks at me, and I smile encouragingly. “I will take the ring to Mordor.” 

All eyes turn to him. He shrinks back into himself a little, and says, more quietly, “Though I do not know the way.” 

A long silence descends over the council as we begin to comprehend the magnitude of what he has just volunteered to do. 

Gandalf, slowly, leaning on his staff, rises. “I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins, as long as it is yours to bear.” 

Aragorn, too, stands. I grin: even in a room of Elvish lords and Gondorian warriors, he has immense presence. “If by my life or death I can protect you, I will.” He kneels. “You have my sword.” 

“And you have my bow,” says Legolas. Shut up. You can take that bow and shove it up your ass. 

“And my axe!” chips in Gimli. 

Hesitantly, Boromir gets to his feet. “You carry the fates of us all, little one.” 

“Mr. Frodo’s not going nowhere without me,” cries Sam stoutly. 

“Or me!” 

“Or me!” Of course, Merry and Pippin step forward recklessly. It’s endearing, but I worry for them: the happy-go-lucky energy surrounding Pippin especially is verging on dangerous. 

“Anyway,” says Pippin bombastically, “you need people of intelligence on this sort of mission… quest… thing.” 

“Well, that rules you out, Pip.” 

Elrond stares at me pointedly. 

“If this fool of a Took isn’t going to be the person of intelligence,” I say airily, rising from the vent, “I’ll do it myself.” 

“Fool of a Took, that’s good,” muses Gandalf. 

“Wait--” objects Legolas. I turn. Why can’t he shut the fuck up? “A lady? On a quest to defeat Sauron?” 

“Do you have a problem with that, Blondie?” 

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he growls balefully. “You’d only hinder us. This is a fight, not a piano concert.” 

“I can fight,” I protest defiantly. He quirks up one eyebrow. I cross my arms. 

“Oh, can you now?” 

“Are you calling me a liar?” I can’t fight to the best of my knowledge, so I dodge the question. 

“Maybe.” And without warning, he lunges at me. I sidestep, but he predicts my move, so he tackles me, pulling out his knives in one sinuous motion. He swipes at me. The knives whistle through the air. I can tell he expects to have his blade at my throat, but I duck and end up behind him. 

He can’t get ahold of me. He’s an elf, true, but I’m smaller. I dodge, feint, sidestep, elude his attacks. I can sense when he’s about to attack: something about his aura shifts slightly. I know we can’t do this forever. I’m going to have to attack. Come on, Y/N, think! 

I’m getting tired. Legolas is relentless. He has put away his knives and decided to fight me hand-to-hand; he strikes my side when I’m not watching and the air goes out of my lungs. He trips me. I sail through the air, landing on my back with an “oof.” I taste blood. Pain ripples across my torso. My eyes get watery at the impact and breathing feels like I’m struggling against a weight on my diaphragm. He’s straddling me, an arrow straight at my eye. 

“Do you yield?” he asks. 

I snarl. “No.” 

And then I snap. 

My energy is nowhere, everywhere at once. I am vaguely conscious that I have started glowing with a mercilessly brilliant white light. There is fire in my veins; starlight in my eyes; each hair on my body is crackling like a whip. I am a lightning strike; a tsunami; my voice is the impetus of the thunderstorm and the persistence of the sea. Like the denouement of an epic, it all clicks into place. I have a gift. I am not emotional, I am tactical, and I can sense emotions. Energies. Auras. The force that is life is mine to command. The moonlilies hearken to my call. I could take the Ring, I could rule Middle Earth, I could be the foundation around which the next age of the Earth is built. 

Somewhere at the edge of my consciousness, a voice mutters. “Y/N.” 

I frown. 

It’s Elrond. “Y/N!” 

Suddenly, I am jerked back to my awareness. I heave a breath, and then, somehow exhausted, slump into Boromir’s arms. The moonlily bushes have grown vicious thorns: slowly, they unfurl and recoil from around Legolas’s neck. His skin has a blue tinge to it: they must have been choking him. They seem hesitant: they pause and wait for my direction. 

“That’s enough,” I gasp out. “Although he deserved it.” I feel no pity. 

Elrond watches me with equal parts consternation and concern. “Ten companions. So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was some degree of closure. OKAY I HAVE A VERY IMPORTANT QUERY PLS DON'T IGNORE.  
> so yk how elves can walk on snow? i have some questions regarding that:  
> 1) how? do they have a normal weight but HUGE feet so that the weight is distributed over a larger area and there is less force? or are they feather-light? cause in the movies, the elves have normal sized feet, but seem to have a normal weight as well, cause legolas relies on his body weight to swing himself up onto the oliphaunt and the cave troll. this is most definitely not sensical. it is non canon-compliant to the physics of the universe. america, explain. what is arkansas.  
> 2) how come hobbits can't walk on snow? cause they have giant ass feet but are super light cause they don't have much... mass.. so. if anything, they should be able to walk on snow and elves shouldn't be. unless it's like weird elvish magic. which is ofc also a viable option.  
> PLEASE answer my burning question in the comments bc i can't sleep anymore. no rly. i'm. just not sleeping. see u soon, lovely readers.


	7. my heart will weep.

I wish I could stay in the Valley of Imladris forever. 

I have finished packing. I am travelling light: just the clothes I am wearing, a heavy cloak for Caradhras, various hygiene paraphernalia, a flask full of water, the pepper spray, Swiss army knife, and first aid kit from my purse, and a lighter which I found deep in the crevices of the small compartment in my purse that was buried under years’ worth of receipts. 

On second thought, I shove the pack of Juicy Fruit gum into my bag. 

I don’t even hear Elrond open my door and come in, but I can feel him. Since the day of the council, my sixth sense has been heightened. It’s overwhelming and I can’t shut it off. So I’ve been hiding in my room to avoid being in large groups of people, only allowing two or three others in at a time. 

“What brings you here?” I turn, closing the satchel. Elrond smiles wistfully at me. 

“You are so much like Gilraen,” he says. 

“Who?” 

“The late mother of Aragorn.” 

“...Oh.” 

“She was compassionate and selfless,” he continues. I don’t know if those are the words I would use to describe myself, or if those are even the words I would want others to describe me as. “She was loyal, almost to a fault. She loved undyingly… until she died.” 

I plop down next to him on the bed. “That’s not the future I envision for myself.” 

“I know. But she had your gift.” 

“I don’t want it,” I whisper, feeling helpless. “Take it from me.” 

“Y/N. Do not mistake your kindness for weakness. And do not, in your folly, smother it down in favor of apathy.” 

“I’m only going on this quest,” I say resolutely, “because I need to get back home. And the Lady Galadriel might be able to help me.” 

“Or not.” 

“But there is still a chance.” 

Elrond shrugs. “Perhaps. But you should not pin all your hopes upon her. You were brought here for a reason. The Eldar foresaw your coming. You must be cautious not to meddle with fate or to fall to the temptation of the Ring.” 

I cough and tremble at the realization of what this means. This could mean that some higher power wants me in Middle Earth. It could mean that I won’t ever get back home. 

And that terrifies me. But what is even more terrifying is that a part of me is okay with that. 

“Your arrival could be the wish of the Allfather.” Then his aura deepens. I look at him. “Or it could be the wish of the Great Enemy.” 

“Sauron?” 

His voice is at once penetrating and dark. “No. Morgoth.” 

\----- 

It is the last dinner. 

The atmosphere in the dining hall is somber and subdued. Even the twins, who I have been working around the clock to keep away from Merry and Pippin, seem quieter. Boromir and I are sharing a plate of some sort of flaky flatbread and the juiciest, tenderest meat I’ve ever had in my life. It tastes like cardboard. 

Lindir has been talking to me, but I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. “It escapes me,” he is saying, “as to the reasoning of your going on this quest. I think you should stay here.” 

“ _I_ think she has every right to go.” Boromir grins, albeit halfheartedly, and touches my arm. “She can hold her own. I think she’s offered us ample proof of that.” 

“True,” admits Lindir. “But she can only do it once. And it drains her. Did you not see?” 

“It is not Y/N’s powers that make her great,” says Boromir. “She, herself, is more than enough.” 

What did I do to deserve him? 

“If you truly must go, be safe,” Lindir tells me. His eyes search my face. “And good luck.” 

“I foresee that you will be valuable to the Fellowship,” says Elrond. My heart swells. 

“Hannon le.” I’ve picked up some Elvish. But a simple _thank you_ is not nearly enough to express my gratitude for such loyal friends. 

Arwen has tears in her eyes. She is not sitting with Aragorn tonight. I can guess what has happened. “Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham,” she says, clasping my hand. _My heart will weep until we meet again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, i know. sorry. also i haven't included a poem or a song in a while. so expect some more of that. the phrase i used, guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham, is from merin essi ar quenteli!'s 101 phrasebook. we stan. alsooo u guys are in this for the long haul because i have over 35 more chapters planned. have fun <3


	8. the road goes ever on.

It is with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to Imladris. 

_Home is behind, the world ahead._

“The time has come for the Ring to set out. You cannot count on your journey being aided by war or force. You will pass into the domain of the Enemy far from aid.” Elrond’s face is grim. I shudder. “Do you still hold to your word, Frodo, that you will be the Ring-bearer?” 

Frodo nods stoutly. “I do.” He pauses. “I _must._ I will go with Sam.” 

“Then I cannot help you much. I cannot foresee much of your road. I will send out messages, but do not trust to the might of our allies, Frodo Baggins. Had I a host of elves such as existed in the Elder Days of the first Ages of the Earth, they would be able to do little save to arouse the attention of the Great Eye.” 

“I understand, Lord Elrond.” 

“And of the young Took?” 

“He would not stay behind,” says Frodo, “even if you were to tie him up and send him home in a sack.” 

The three of us descend to the rest of the Fellowship. 

And it is time to leave. 

We head out the door, all on foot. Sam’s pony, Bill, carries a lot of our baggage. I can sense that he has no qualms about doing so. Good boy. 

I look back. The gleaming spires and cascading waterfalls look empty. Lonely, somehow. The Age of the Elves is dwindling. Arwen makes eye contact with Aragorn, nods, and looks away. 

The forest weeps. 

Elrond is standing alone now, a last light in a world where the dark is enclosing fast. His robes gleam. 

He mouths to me: _Go now, and fill the unforgiving minute._

\----- 

I’ve been places. 

I’ve seen the endless wheat fields of Kansas, stretching so far they could cover the planet; I’ve seen the giant sequoia trees of California, reaching up to the great blue beyond, remnants of a past where giants could have walked the Earth, because how else could trees be so tall? I’ve seen the endless oceans, blue-grey and final, the sacred, ice-capped mountains of the Himalayas, the aurora borealis, glacial and gossamer in the sky. 

It is nothing compared to Middle-Earth. 

Industry has not yet marred the land; the spectral, vernal valleys are untouched. To our left, the Misty Mountains rise in craggy steeples like the fingers of some fallen god. It is fantastically alien; vast and stark and luscious and life-giving. A river, turbulent and phantasmal, gallivants windingly around rugged pastoral hills. 

“We must hold to this course, west of the Misty Mountains, for forty days. If our luck holds, the Gap of Rohan will still be open to us. From there, our road turns east to Mordor.” 

We trudge onwards. 

“So…” says Boromir, trying to make small talk. “What brings you all here?” 

“The Ring,” says Frodo. He peers down at it: such a small trinket to carry the fate of the world. I wonder, briefly, if it has the power to bring me home. 

“Frodo,” says Sam, and the remaining two halflings give a cheer of agreement. 

Gimli hefts his axe and swings it rather clumsily. “I’m here representing the dwarves. And protecting Middle-Earth from these pompous pointy-ears.” 

I grin. “Attaboy, Gimli!” 

“Oh, so I suppose you’d love to share your noble reason for participating in this quest, Y/N,” comments Legolas archly, crossing his arms. I glare at him. 

“I…” I pause, realizing I’m going to have to lie. The rest of the Fellowship looks at me expectantly. I’m in such deep shit. What was it I said before? “I’m from the East.” Nice save, Y/N. “The Enemy has wreaked havoc on my… father’s… empire. I was sent by the, uh, the Blue Wizard.” 

The others eat my lie up. I’m too good. 

“Which Blue Wizard?” asks Gandalf, leaning in. “I have never known them to--” 

“--be interested in the affairs of Beleriand, I know,” I say. “It was, um, it was Alatar.” 

“I see,” says Gandalf. Then, muttering, “You’re a good liar.” 

“I know, right?” I turn to Legolas. “So how about you, princeling? Daddy kick you out?” 

_“Actually,”_ he sneers, scowling, “I’m here because of Aragorn. He is Elessar, the heir--” 

“--of Isildur, slayer of the Enemy, son of Elendil, son of Amandil, Lord of Andunie, yeah, yeah. You can stop hyping him up now.” 

“Hyping him up?” Merry seems confused. 

“It’s, uhh, Eastern slang, meaning to sing one’s praises repeatedly.” 

“Ahh. I see.” 

“So what about you, Boromir?” I turn to him, smiling. “Why have you embarked on this… perilous journey?” 

“That is a long story, my angel, and one for another time.” 

I frown. “Very well. Another time, then.” 

\----- 

The Eregion hills are beautiful. Aragorn and Boromir are training Merry, Pippin, and I in swordfighting. 

“You said your father is an emperor in the East,” says Aragorn. “So you must know how to swordfight. You must have had a skilled tutor.” 

“I…” I pause, thinking of a believable lie. “In Eastern culture, women, they aren’t really supposed to know how to fight. We just… sew. And cook. And do calligraphy. And stuff like that.” 

“I see. I am regretful to say that it is similar here.” Aragorn’s expression is contrite, in an endearing way. I can tell why Arwen likes him so much. 

“Not in elf culture!” butts in Legolas, unprompted, to which I answer, “Shut up, blondie.” 

Gimli cackles. “I like you, lass.” 

“Then I shall teach you, as well,” says Aragorn. He instructs me on how to grip the sword, how to thrust, to disarm, to parry. Then he says, “Now attack me.” 

I lunge at him. Within seconds, I am disarmed. The point of his blade is at my throat. 

“Oh,” I say. 

“Again,” is all he says. 

I step at him and attempt to thrust. Our swords clank together. I sidestep. Instantaneously, my sword clatters to the ground. 

“Better.” 

“How was that be--” 

“Again.” 

I can’t stand this. The movies make it look so easy. I’m just so _slow._

This next time, I focus on being faster. I am certain speed will help me improve. But it’s so _hard,_ and somehow I get worse and not better. Boromir keeps yelling instructions at the hobbits: “Get away from the blade, Pippin. On your toes. Good, very good! I want you to react, not think.” It’s so fucking _distracting._

The slightest turn of my head to look at him, and my sword is out of my hands. 

“ARRRGH!!” 

Legolas, perched like a fucking squirrel in the treetops with his arms crossed, snorts. I give him the middle finger. I don’t think he even knows what it means. 

“You’re being too hasty,” admonishes Aragorn. “This will get you nowhere.” 

“But you’re so fast,” I whine. I am aware that I sound annoying. I can’t help it. If some supernatural power wanted me in Middle Earth so bad, why couldn’t they give me the gift of battle instead of the gift of emotion-sensing like some shitty palm reader? 

“I am not fast,” says Aragorn. “I simply have more control over my timing. This comes through fluidity.” 

“Don’t give me that ‘the sword is an extension of your arm’ shit,” I say. 

“But it is. You have no control over your extra limb. Your wasteful motion is simply slowing you down.” 

“It is not.” 

Legolas hops out of the tree and lands, catlike, on his feet. Fucking elves. “Clearly, you lack experience. Fluid motion always arrives before the hasty strike. Any _good_ swordsman knows it. If you have good timing, the necessity for speed is eliminated entirely. There is no need to get somewhere quickly if you get there at the right time. Of course, I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand.” 

I stare daggers at him. He’s right. Of course he’s right. But I don’t want to admit it. 

Boromir joins the group, with the two hobbits that seem to be stuck to him like white on rice now. “Quite good, Pippin. Slow is steady, steady is smooth, smooth is fast.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense.” 

At that moment, Gimli begins to speak loudly and rapidly to a worn Gandalf, interrupting us all. “If _anyone_ were to ask for _my_ opinion, which I note they have not, I would say we’re taking the long way ‘round. Gandalf,” he says, addressing the old wizard directly, “we can pass through the Mines of Moria. My cousin, Balin, would give us a royal welcome.” 

Gandalf quite clearly thinks this is a terrible idea. “No. I would not take the road through Moria unless I had no other choice.” 

Their conversation is broken by an anxious Samwise. “Mr. Strider, sir, what’s that?” he asks, gesturing to a distant dark patch in the sky upon which Legolas’s eyes are fixed. 

“Nothing,” says Gimli dismissively. “Just a cloud.” 

“It’s moving fast,” notes Boromir worriedly. Then he stares. “And against the wind.” 

Legolas’s eyes widen. Before he gets the chance to shout, I do. “Crebain from Dunland!” 

He glares at me. 

“Hide!” cries Aragorn. We all dive into bushes. 

I conveniently end up in a bush with Boromir. He presses me to his chest, and I breathe in his scent: the leather of his Gondorian armor has a distinct fragrance that is intoxicating and quite masculine, not to be cliche. “Merry! Pippin! Sam! Take cover!” he yells. His concern for the hobbits is adorable. 

The crows wheel and circle above. Their screeches grate on my ears. They are spies for the Enemy. 

At that moment, it hits me: 

_What if I die before I can get back home?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boromir's backstory comes next chapter, i promise. this is a longer chapter than the others. also, i recently watched knives out and it's GREAT. i highly recommend. it has chris evans, which should be incentive enough. honestly, i don't even like mysteries, but this is like, inception mindbending stuff. anyway, leave a comment for movie and poetry recs. i love poetry, as u all probably know. see u later, sexy readers.


	9. wow, almost as if boromir's a fully fledged character who doesn't get the hype he deserves!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowwww chapter notes at the beginning this time! ok so: i just wanted to encourage you to listen to dances for harp and orchestra, l. 103: 1. danse secree by debussy while u read the caradhras part, a) because it fits the winter wonderland i envisioned, and b) because debussy is a legend and it's just a really good song. i love the lavinia meijer version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIsGEGTeLCU. sorry to get aesthetic on main :)  
> anyway, i adjusted some plot points for future chapters, and we're looking at about 70 chapters in total, maybe more. when i said slow burn, i really meant snail-with-arthritis burn. oopsie ;)

Up until now, the part of my brain that couldn’t believe I had landed in Middle Earth had been suppressed. By what, I don’t know; maybe a primal need to survive, to get a lay of the land before I could fully react. 

Now, it hits me in full. 

The screeching of the crows fades. I can’t breathe. I feel a little lightheaded-- more than a little, even. My breathing has become erratic. Is it my breathing? I am aware-- but what is awareness, exactly? What does it mean to have consciousness? I feel as if my vision has left my body, like I am watching myself. Middle Earth no longer feels alien. 

_I_ do. 

I am still pressed to Boromir’s chest. I focus on the sensation of rough leather on my cheek, and his scent. The feeling of its rise and fall as he breathes. The beating, faint but powerful, of his heart. 

The wave of emotion is gone, quickly as it arrived. 

Get your head in the game, Y/N. 

Suddenly, the crows wheel away. They are heading back south. Towards Isengard. 

“Spies of Saruman,” says Gandalf, staggering to his feet. “The passage south is being watched.” 

He and Aragorn exchange a look. They fight a silent battle before Gandalf’s expression becomes resigned. 

“We must take the Pass of Caradhras.” 

Shiiiiiiit. 

\------ 

We clamber up the mountainside, encumbered by rocks and snow that has fallen knee-deep. Sunlight tumbles off each icy plane. The snowfall is fresh and dazzling, pristine and glittery on the top, but it’s far from powdery and quite difficult to trudge through. 

“Boromir?” 

“Yes, love?” 

“You said your reason for being here was a long story. Well, we have time now.” 

He laughs. The light bounces merrily off the snow and reflects in his eyes, haloing him in a pellucid frosty light. For a brief moment, I think he’s an angel. 

“I suppose we do have time,” he admits. “I’ll tell you: 

“Once, I lived in Gondor, in vast white halls upon the highest point of the great city of Minas Tirith, with my brother Faramir and my parents. My father, Denethor II son of Ecthelion, was a noble man.” 

“Was?” 

“We’ll get to that. He and my mother, Finduilas of Dol Amroth, were content together. She was a lady of great beauty, and a loving heart. My father, in turn, loved her.” He pauses. “Like my brother. 

“She was not happy in Minas Tirith. This I saw from a young age. She withered, like the moonlily, and she turned her eyes ever away from the East. She longed, in her heart, for the south, for the rushing of the Great Sea. And then…” 

“And then what?” 

“Her health… dwindled. She fell quite ill. And when I was ten years of age, she--” He stutters and blinks rapidly. “Pardon me, my lady. She passed away.” 

The Fellowship falls silent. Pippin looks down. 

“I’m so sorry, Boromir.” 

“Don’t be,” he tells me. “It is not any fault of yours. And besides, you bring me back a little piece of her. I see her in you.” 

What is it with me and inner resemblance to people’s dead mothers? 

“She was only thirty-eight.” 

I gasp. “But she was from Dol Amroth? Was she not descended from the Dunedain? How?” 

“She was sad, m’lady. Away from the Sea, which she loved dearly. Heartbreak is more powerful than any wound of the body. Even for a Dunadain.” 

I think of Arwen. Aragorn averts his eyes. 

“After my mother died, my father withdrew. He became reclusive and reticent, not deigning to speak to my younger brother except to criticize him. He constantly belittled Faramir, all the while placing me on an undeserved pedestal. And he became grim. He was ever-watchful of the East. He envisaged that the armies of Mordor had their eye on his kingdom, and that any day they would come for him. I thought he was crazy. We all did. And he probably was. So I devoted myself to leading my people into battle, protecting our frontiers where my father would not. And Faramir--” he pauses again-- “loyal Faramir, he always followed me. Without question. Without failure. 

“We were fighting in east Osgiliath, in a last desperate stand to hold the border. We were on the bridge. The outlook was bleak. We knew we could not withstand the forces of the Enemy much longer. You must understand, my lady, that Gondor has indeed been in decline for the past Age of the Earth as the Enemy grows in might and boldness. We were trying to hold the bridge, but they destroyed it. Everyone was lost.” 

I gasp. A solitary tear falls from Boromir’s eye. 

“Except me, and my faithful Faramir. We swam across the river Anduin that day. No one else did.” 

I look away. My stomach is awash in an acid of conflicting emotions. No wonder he sees the Ring as an opportunity. How can he not? 

How can _I_ not? 

“You remind me of him, Lady Y/N. He balances me out: he has a pleasanter nature and a cooler temper, and a wiser heart. Just like you.” 

“I am sure I have done nothing to deserve such high praise.” 

“But you have, my lady.” He takes my hand, and, bowing his head, brushes it with the lightest of butterfly kisses. I blush madly. 

He looks around to make sure no one else is listening. Then he continues: “I am here to win the war and to ensure that Gondor lives on. I want Faramir to inherit the title of Steward.” 

“And if Aragorn becomes king…” I say, connecting the dots. 

“Faramir may never get the chance.” 

I sigh in sympathy. I know that Aragorn is a wise and just leader. He will make a great king. But a part of me, the section of my brain that is always in rebellion, secretly hopes that Faramir will become steward. That he’ll rule Gondor for the rest of his life. It’s what he deserves. 

I feel something cold and wet make a sharp impact with the back of my head. I reach back to touch it. Snow. 

Whipping around, I see Merry. He has another snowball in his hands. 

I smirk. “Oh, it’s on.”


	10. i am the snowball god!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey check the notes for all quenya translations :)

I dive underneath a snowbank for cover. Boromir is close behind me. Meriadoc Brandybuck, in his infinite folly, has underestimated my power. 

I am the snowball god. 

In the time it takes Boromir to make one perfectly round and glistening snowball, I have made twenty (albeit clumsy and not resembling spheres in any way, shape, or form). Of course, it’s not the shape that matters. It’s the aim. 

I dodge, duck, block, and hurl snowball after snowball, rarely missing my mark. Aragorn opens his mouth wide to laugh, and finds a snowball in his mouth. I snicker. 

“How can you be so bad at swordfighting but so good at snowball fighting?” he yells. His nature is competitive, and he is frustrated. I would feel bad for him, but his anger is hilarious. 

“That’s a good lass!” cries Gimli. He is my ammunition supplier, so to speak. Something about his dwarvish blood makes Gimli impossibly fast at crafting perfect snowballs. He’s like Buddy the Elf, if Buddy were short, redheaded, and prone to cursing on inappropriate occasions. 

Sam throws a snowball at me, and I duck. I hit Merry square in the chest. He falls over dramatically, tripping a running Pippin, who also goes down. I have not been hit once. 

“I am the god of snowball fights!” I yell majestically. “Kneel, peasants! None can best me--” 

A snowball hits my cheek. 

Who dares enter my realm? I wipe it off angrily and turn to see none other than our smirking elven princess, platinum hair blowing in the wind. He raises one eyebrow at me and leans nonchalantly against a tree. 

I do a double take. 

This _son-of-a-bitch_ is _on top of the fucking snow._

“Ohhhh,” I growl. “I swear to Eru, I will bury you in the snow you stand atop.” 

“You can try, perhaps,” he says. His tone is infuriatingly arrogant. I want to rip off his arm and shove it down his self-righteous little elvish throat. 

“I think you should shut your mouth, Barbie,” I snarl. 

“You know what I think?” he asks. Then, without waiting for a response, “I think you are jealous of my indomitable skill.” 

“I don’t even know what indomitable means!” I lob a snowball at him. It should hit him. 

It should have fucking hit him. 

How the fuck does he dodge so fast? Drugs. It must be. The way he’s moving is some Matrix shit. Clearly, he took the red pill. And the fact that he can walk on top of the snow is SO FUCKING UNFAIR. 

Something about this elf-- his disgusting perfect hair, his arrogance, the way he flaunts Daddy’s money like Paris Hilton on steroids-- impassions a burning and unbridled anger within me. I want to kick his ass so hard his spinal vertebrae pop out of his mouth one by one like fucking PEZ. 

He’s not even trying now: just nonchalantly dodging all my missiles. He’s standing under a scraggly tree whose branches are covered with a thick layer of snow. 

Something stirs inside of me. 

I can hear the ocean. Why do I hear the ocean? I have started glowing faintly. Vaguely, as if on the outside looking in, I feel a sense of triumph: the last time I started glowing, it did not end well for Legolas. 

When I speak, my voice is not my own. 

_“Ni estanna i Valar -o i cemen. Ni estanna i cala. Lar- mime óma ar túl. Lar- mima óma ar anne tennoio!”_ * 

Legolas’s face pales. 

The storm churns like the Great Sea of the West where I once walked. Or is the storm me? I cannot tell. Its life-force, its fea, is me, is mine. It has been so long, _meldonya._ ** 

The tree reaches its branches to meet me, the storm, or the glowing girl below, I still cannot tell. _Elentári sila silomë;_ *** I am she. _Mornië alantië;_ ✝ I rule the night. 

With one world-ending motion, the tree, the girl, the snow, the storm, fall. 

\----- 

I blink. Where am I? What am I doing? 

Ah yes, I remember. We were in Menegroth, and the forces of Morgoth were upon us. We call, call upon our brothers at Gondolin, but there are none to be-- 

I start. Legolas is buried under about ten feet of snow. Only the top of his bow peeks through. Sam and Aragorn are frantically digging to free him. 

Who are these people? Why do I know their faces? 

“Y/N!” calls Samwise. “Are you alright?” 

“Ma istanyel?”✝✝ I ask, confused. 

Aragorn gapes. He is the heir of Isildur-- impudent boy! When he was a lad, he would-- 

But no, I wasn’t there. Or was I? 

“Áva sorya, rodel,”✝✝✝ says Elessar, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. The snow is all around me. Arien runs high in the sky. Long ago, it was she that gave me the light of the sun. 

No, no, no. What am I thinking? 

I’m Y/N. And I need to get back to Earth. 

Clearly, the longer I stay here, I’m going insane. 

“Á tulë sinomë, Elberethiel,”☆ says Aragorn. 

I gawk stupidly. “I have… absolutely no idea what that means.” That’s Elvish, but it’s definitely not Sindarin. What is happening? 

Aragorn and Boromir exchange a weird look. 

Legolas bursts from under the mountain of snow, coughing and spluttering. The pointy tips of his ears are blue. I guess ten minutes without breathing is a lot, even for an elf. “Nátyë necindo,”☆☆ he accuses. 

“Speak a language we can all understand!” I yell. Gimli shouts in agreement: something in Dwarvish which, judging from Aragorn’s expression, is not very kind. 

Legolas looks confused. So there are things that even Mr. Covergirl doesn’t know. Hah. 

“Was she not..” He shakes his head. “I could have sworn to Earendil that she was just speaking Quenya.” 

I stare at him. “Maybe the snow damaged that Elvish brain of yours, blondie.” 

“No, you definitely were speaking some sort of elven language,” insists Legolas. 

“Shove it up your ass--” 

“Actually, Miss Y/N, ma’am, I think you were,” says Sam nervously. 

“You were,” says Frodo. “You said some sort of incantation, I think, about calling on the light?” 

“I…” I look between them. “I thought there was only one Elvish language. I thought it was just Sindarin.” 

Gandalf looks wary. “We may be trifling with powerful and ancient magic here, Y/N. Best if you refrain from engaging in any more snowball fights.” 

Boromir notices that I’m shivering and wraps his cloak around me. What a gentleman. Behind him, Legolas sticks his tongue out at me. 

Somehow, this is all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOOTNOTES:  
> *(disclaimer: i don't have perfect quenya grammar, don't come after me) I call upon the Valar of the Earth. I call upon the light. Hear my voice and come. Hear my voice and aid me!  
> ** My friend; my lover.  
> *** The star-forger shines tonight.  
> ✝ Darkness has fallen.  
> ✝✝ Do I know you?  
> ✝✝✝ Do not worry, my lady.  
> ☆ Come forth, Daughter of Elbereth.  
> ☆☆ You're insane!
> 
> \-----
> 
> CHAPTER NOTES:  
> hello again, lovely people! i'm trying to update more frequently since u people seem to be liking this story. i've pretty much finished planning out the rest of the chapters-- we're looking at about eighty chapters in total, unless i can consolidate. hahah.  
> for audvocado's Daily Dose of Culture (TM), i have selected my favorite song literally ever. (this one i actually CAN play. shocker!) i highly encourage you guys to take a listen to chopin's nocturne no. 2 in e-flat major. more poems coming soon, because poetry and i have a special relationship. which u guys probably know by now, lol.  
> wash your damn hands, fools, and i'll see all of you lovely readers soon!


	11. cuiva nwalca carnirasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sindarin translations at the bottom, again.

That night, it is deathly cold. 

We have no time to rest. The path through Caradhras is slowing us enough as it is. The blizzard before us is an opaque sheet of pure white. Merry and Pippin, who seem to have an infinite supply of good cheer, are singing to encourage the Fellowship. 

_“There is an inn, a merry old inn_

_Beneath an old grey hill,_

_And there they brew a beer so brown_

_That the Man in the Moon himself came down_

_One night to drink his fill.”_

As they sing, they bounce around each other in some sort of complex dance, slapping feet and hands. Gandalf laughs and shakes his head. 

_“The ostler has a tipsy cat_

_That plays a five-stringed fiddle_

_And up and down he runs his bow,_

_Now squeaking high, now purring low,_

_Now sawing in the middle!”_

The halflings finish with a flourish and a poorly-coordinated bow. Pippin almost falls over. We laugh. Gimli applauds. And then an awkward silence descends upon the group. 

“Well, we’ve got nothing else, and that’s saying something,” says Sam, scratching his curly head. “Someone else entertain the group.” 

“How about you, Y/N? Since you are _so_ wise,” snarks Legolas. I shoot him a nasty look. Fucking elves. 

“Fine,” I snap. “Maybe I will, if you’re _so_ desperate.” 

“Please refrain,” says Boromir politely. “You cannot sing.” 

“I--” I falter. “Yeah, that’s true. I can’t sing.” 

“Aha!” says Legolas triumphantly. 

“But I know some poems.” I watch with satisfaction as Legolas’s smug look dissolves. 

“This had better be good,” he sneers. 

“Are you doubting the prodigious talent of Gerard Manley Hopkins?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Lord have mercy on my poor soul,” I mutter. Then I begin: 

_Look at the stars! look, look up at the skies!_

_O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air!_

_The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there!_

_Down in dim woods the diamond delves! the elves’-eyes!_

_The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies!_

_Wind-beat whitebeam! airy abeles set on a flare!_

_Flake-doves sent floating forth at a farmyard scare!_

_Ah well! it is all a purchase, all is a prize._

_Buy then! bid then! — What? — Prayer, patience, alms, vows._

_Look, look: a May-mess, like on orchard boughs!_

_Look! March-bloom, like on mealed-with-yellow sallows!_

_These are indeed the barn; withindoors house_

_The shocks. This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse_

_Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows._

For a short while, we toil on in silence, pondering the poem. 

“So,” drawls Legolas, cutting the comfortable quiet like an arrow, “you think my eyes shine like the stars?” He’s obviously trying to incense me. I will not let him. 

“Not at all,” I say. “Lindir’s, maybe. And definitely Arwen’s. But you are the odd exception, my friend.” 

“Oh, so you call me your ‘friend’ now?” 

“Don’t get too excited,” I gripe. “It’s just a formality.” 

“Is it?” His voice is thick with amusement. It aggravates me to no end. I want to invert his ribcage. 

“The only possible explanation for Legolas’s lack of starry eyes is that he is not actually an elf. He is simply an impostor,” I announce. Boromir laughs with me. Legolas laughs _at_ me. 

“I am an impostor? Then pray tell, O wise Lady Y/N, why do I speak perfect Elvish?” he asks. 

“So does Aragorn,” I say, “and he’s not an elf.” 

“Or am I?” says Aragorn from the front of the group. 

I add, “And so does Frodo, and he’s _definitely_ not an elf.” 

“Hey!” protests Frodo. “I’ve got pointier ears than you, missy!” 

“And a better Sindarin accent than Mr. Silvan Hick here, probably, too.” 

“I am not a Silvan hick!” Legolas yells, no longer laughing. 

“Really now? You could’ve fooled me,” I yell back. 

“Pedin i phith in aníron,” he fumes, “a nin ú-cheniathog!”* 

“Pedin edhellen, you fool!” I retort, gesturing wildly. His eyes widen in surprise. It takes all my strength not to full-on shriek. I need to not let my anger get the better of me. “Mítho orch!”** 

“PERHAPS I SHALL!” he screams back. “EXCEPT, OH WAIT, I CAN THINK OF NO MAN WHO WOULD WISH TO KISS YOU!” 

“THEN CLEARLY,” roars Boromir, to my surprise, “YOU DO NOT THINK HARD ENOUGH!” 

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH BEFORE I FELL YOU WITH AN ARROW!” 

“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH BEFORE I FELL YOU BY MY BLADE!” 

They are shouting so loudly, I almost don’t hear the voice. 

Almost. 

“Both of you, be quiet,” I snap. 

They don’t pay attention. 

“THAT WAS A COMMAND!” I roar. It appears my little “gift” is back. My eyes glow bright white. “SILENCE!” 

They shut their mouths. The entire Fellowship stares at me in shock. I snap, I speak sharply, I reprimand. But this is the first time in years I have screamed. 

“Do you hear that?” I say. 

They strain their ears. Legolas’s eyes dart about. “There is a fell voice on the air.” 

“It’s Saruman!” Gandalf looks up, alarmed, at the storm. Sure enough, it has a voice: both distant and all too near, a dull roar in my ears. It is the voice of Saruman, rolling past the mountain with the clouds like fierce August thunder. 

“ _Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse;_ wake up, cruel Redhorn,” I repeat. 

“How do you know that?” demands Legolas. 

I actually have no idea how I know that. “Shut up, Goldilocks,” I snipe. “I’m trying to listen-- _nai yarvaxea rasselya!_ May your horn be… bloodstained?” 

Gandalf’s eyes widen. “He’s trying to bring down the mountain.” 

“Quick! We must turn back!” commands Aragorn, at the same time that I yell, “Well, no shit, Sherlock! Do something about it!” 

Gandalf raises his staff and chants into the wind. His voice is all but swept away. “ _Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, nuitho i ruith!_ ” 

“I don’t know,” I say. “Something tells me telling the mountain to sleep isn’t going to do much-- oh wait! _Cuiva nwalca Carnirasse; nai yarvaxea rasselya; taltuva notto-carinnar…_ may your bloodstained horn fall upon enemy heads?!” 

“We must turn back NOW!” roars Aragorn. His voice is the only one that can be heard over the chanting storm. 

All of a sudden, a colossal fork of lightning cracks down like a striking serpent from the sky and smashes thunderously into the mountainside. As the clouds scream their wrath, an avalanche of snow and rubble crashes down towards us. I shriek and leap out of the way, almost knocking over Legolas, who is pulling Gandalf to safety. 

If only he’d fallen off the mountain. 

Once Aragorn and Boromir have dug the hobbits, shivering and terrified, to safety, Boromir shouts, “We must get off the Mountain! Make for the Gap of Rohan and take the west road to my city!” 

“Yeah, a city sounds great right about now,” I say, cursing the sleet and the avalanche and the lightning. Thunder rumbles; a portent of an imminent bolt. My hood, my shoes, my short dress, my hair, all of them are logged with freezing cold water. 

“The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard,” says Aragorn. 

“We cannot pass over a mountain.” Gimli crosses his arms and wrings out his beard. “Let us go under it. Let us go through the Mines of Moria.” 

No. No, no, no, no. Absolutely not. If I’m not killed by the serpent or the orcs or the troll or the goblins, I will definitely be killed by the _fucking Balrog._ They call it the Dark Halls for a reason. I know what the dwarves have awoken there. 

“Let the Ring-bearer decide.” 

I know it also means the death of Gandalf. He won’t be gone forever. But I don’t know if that’s something I can deal with right now. Not so soon. 

Merry and Pippin shudder violently, teeth chattering, in Boromir’s arms. We all watch Frodo, awaiting his decision. 

“Frodo?” repeats Gandalf. 

I can’t do this. I cannot do this. I have to get back to Earth. 

“We will go through the mines.” 

Slowly, Gandalf nods. 

“So be it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -GLOSSARY-  
> *Pedin i phith in aniron, a nin u cheniathog!-- I can say what I wish, and you won't be able to understand me!  
> **Pedin edhellen... Mitho orch!-- I speak Elvish... Go kiss an orc!  
> \----  
> now they have to go through moria. and i have to find words in the english dictionary sufficient to describe a balrog. great.  
> enjoy the poem and reread it if you want. it's the starlight night by gerard manley hopkins, another one of my favorites. i think ravel's pavane for a dead princess goes nicely with it, but if anyone knows a better song to go with the poem, comment it. i'd love to take a listen. the song the hobbits sing is the man in the moon by jirt himself. the OBVIOUS song to go with the storm is, ofc, movement iii of beethoven's moonlight sonata (presto agitato). i USED to be able to play this one. that's a lot of notes to remember tho, lol. until next time, fare thee well, good readers!


	12. moonlilies, pt. ii.

I don’t know. 

I mean, I know this is a dwarf door in the books and in the movies, but this just looks like a sheer face of rock to me. Part of me is really starting to doubt whether this is an entrance at all. 

“Dwarf doors,” Gimli is explaining somewhere in the background, “are invisible when closed.” 

“Yes, Gimli, their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten.” Gandalf peers at the rock. It doesn’t change. 

“Why does that not surprise me?” snarks Legolas. I shoot a glare at him. 

I sniff with disgust. “You know what doesn’t surprise _me?_ That Barbie here--” I gesture to Legolas’s platinum-blond hair, which by the way is still L’Oreal-model perfect-- “has no respect for the artisanship of cultures other than his own.” 

“That is entirely false, and a deliberate exaggeration. What doesn’t surprise _me_ is that Lady Infinite Courtesy here just used her entire vocabulary in one sentence. Maybe she should have stayed in the East.” 

“Maybe you should have stayed in Mirkwood, drinking Dorwinion wine and living off Daddy’s money. I’m sure _Lord Thranduil_ wouldn’t mind.” 

“Do not ever compare me to my father again!” 

“Oh, dear. Would Oropher appreciate you talking like that about his son, hm, Princess?” 

Legolas actually snarls at that and leaps at me. Lazily, I sidestep, but he anticipates my move. Quick as a brown fox, he tackles me to the ground. 

While we fight, Gandalf approaches the wall and squints at it carefully. Slowly, slender silver lines, glassy and luminous in the thick inky dark, run through the stone. 

“Isildin,” muses the old wizard. “It mirrors only starlight and moonlight.” 

As the rays of the moon reach their pale tendrils over the mountains, the lines on the rock grow brighter and bolder, forming an elegant arch above vaguely Nordic runes. 

“It says, ‘The Door of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter,’” reads Gandalf. 

Speak, friend, and enter. 

Speak ‘friend’ and enter. 

“What do you suppose that means?” asks Merry, gaping at the door. 

“It’s simple,” says Gandalf confidently. “If you are a friend, you speak the password and the doors will open.” 

“This one is really obvious, guys,” I say with the giddy delight that comes from knowing the answer to a riddle before anyone else. 

“Oh, is it, now? Why do you not tell us the answer?” Legolas pauses in his attempts to beat me up to hurl sarcastic words at me. 

No. Frodo has to figure this one out. I just can’t tell them that. “I think you guys should figure it out,” I say cryptically. 

“I think you just do not know the password,” says Legolas. 

“The password is right there.” 

“Right there,” says Gandalf regally, knocking the door with his staff. 

Nothing happens. 

“Taer ennas,” he says, less grandiose this time. 

Nothing happens. 

“I didn’t mean that literally, you know,” I grumble. 

“Annon edhellen,” incants Gandalf, raising his staff and shooting me a look, “edro hi ammen!” 

The door stands fast. I raise an eyebrow. “Elven gates, open for me? Really?” 

“You don’t even know Sindarin,” says Legolas. To be honest, I don’t know how I know Sindarin either. “That’s not an exact translation.” 

“Fine, Lord Precision. _Gate of the Elves, open now for me,_ then.” 

He shuts his mouth. 

“I thought so.” 

“Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen!” Gandalf looks expectantly at the doors. 

“Nothing’s happening,” notes Pippin. Gandalf glances at him, annoyed. He pushes the doors. 

“I once knew every spell in the tongues of Elves, Men, and Orcs.” Orcs? 

“What are you going to do, then?” Pippin watches Gandalf. 

“Knock your head against these doors, Peregrin Took! And if that does not shatter them, and I am allowed a little peace from foolish questions, I will try to find the opening words.” 

Legolas and I laugh at the same time. Then, when we both realize the other is laughing, our laughter dies off and we glare at each other. 

\----- 

We have been waiting forever. 

Gandalf is mumbling spells, weary and burnt-out at this point: “Ando Eldarinwa ... a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa…” 

“Quenya, Sindarin, Dwarvish, common,” I count, flopping down onto the ground. I watch as Aragorn makes a crying Sam let Bill the pony go. 

Oh, well. I might as well make use of this time. 

I reach into my sack, planning to reorganize, and am surprised to find a moonlily. _The_ moonlily, in fact. The one from the gardens where I met Lindsay Lohan the Elf. 

“Oh,” I murmur. To my surprise, the moonlily is as fresh as the day it was picked. But it’s still not glowing. 

Some primal instinct, terrible and great, rises like bile within me. I try to force the sudden wave of emotion down, but it overpowers my boundaries and spews forth in the form of… incantations? _“Indilo i Elentari, lar- mime óma ar túl at- ana i kal. Indilo i Elentari, lar- mime óma ar túl at cuiv. Ni aist- fealca.”_

What the-- 

Hold on. 

I stare at the flower. It’s… starting to glow again? “What did I just say?” I whisper in amazement. 

Peculiarly, it is Legolas who sits beside me. “Lily of Elbereth Gilthoniel-- that means--” 

“Star-forger, yes, I know--” 

“--alright, alright, hearken to my voice and come back to the light. Lily of Elbereth Gilthoniel, hearken to my voice and come back to life. I bless your soul.” 

“Wow,” I remark, “that’s not nearly as prosy as it sounded.” 

Legolas chuckles. “No, it’s not.” He studies the flower. “It’s glowing again. It’s alive.” 

“I’ve noticed,” I say snidely. 

“Well, I would hope so, Gulbereth.” 

“Gulbereth?” 

“Queen of Wisdom.” 

I grumble. “Ross Lynch.” 

“Ross Lynch?” 

“Unrealistically blond hair.” 

He grumbles back at me. Then we sit in silence for a while. 

“Why did you revive the flower?” He’s so different when we’re not in front of the whole Fellowship. Which means he has different personalities and he’s a fake-ass bitch. 

“I don’t even know how I did it. Honestly, it was on instinct,” I answer, scrutinizing his reaction carefully. 

His expression betrays no emotion. How does he do it? “So you were angry. At yourself.” 

“That’s stupid. How can you even be angry at yourself?” I don’t even feel anger. Unless it has to do with him, of course. 

He watches me. “You’re not from the East, are you?” 

Shit. Does he see through me? I should have known. I should have been more careful. It’s my damn face that turns red when I lie. I mean, I can’t continue lying. I really shouldn’t. And it’s over anyway, so there’s no point. 

“Alright, Barbie,” I glare defensively. “You got me.” 

“Really?” says Legolas. “I was only guessing. So you lied.” His expression is so disappointed and angry that I feel bad. 

HE WAS JUST GUESSING?! 

I’ve broken my rule again. How could I blow my cover? I’m so fucking stupid. 

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

“Where are you from, then?” 

Fuck, shit, fuck, shit. This bitch is emotionally manipulative. He’s making me feel angry. And guilty. At myself. For him. How? I’m stronger than this. I know I can be stronger than this. I must look like a deer in headlights right now. Get it together, Y/N. 

“I--” I falter, miserable. “I’m-- I--” 

How can I tell him I’m from the future of a parallel universe? 

Answer: I can’t. Lie. 

I rack my brain for a lie. My ears are turning red and the blush is getting dangerously near to my face. Legolas narrows his eyes. 

At that moment, every single hair on my body stands up, because a splash comes from near the lake behind us. 

I whip around. Pippin has a stone in his hand and a guilty expression on his face. 

And the water is churning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY  
> Fennas Nogothrim, lasto beth lammen-- Doorway of the dwarf-folk, listen to the word of my tongue  
> Ando Eldarinwa... a lasta quettanya, Fenda Casarinwa-- Q. Gate of the Elves... listen to my word, Threshold of Dwarves  
> \-----  
> hello and welcome back, friends! no songs or poems today :( but i do recommend that u watch interstellar. it's a lot like inception in that it's mind-bending. how do these ppl even come up with this?? coming up next, y/n has to stop running away from her emotions. spoiler alert, she probably (definitely) doesn't. see u soon, lovely readers!


	13. the time that is given to us.

I squeak. I know what’s under that water. It could kill me. It could kill us all. I don’t even have a weapon. 

“Alright, FINE! I’ll solve the friggin’ puzzle!” I shriek. “We have to get out of here! _Mellon!_ ” 

Silently, the rock divides in the center and two heavy doors swing outwards. Beyond, there is only a darkness that rivals night. 

“Oh, that _was_ obvious,” comments Gandalf, watching the doors open. 

The water stirs. 

“GO!” I scream, and bolt through the doors. The others are close behind me, strolling at a leisurely pace. 

“Soon, Master Elf,” says Gimli, “you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves; roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone! This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin-- and they call this a mine.” He snorts. “A mine!” 

If only I could tell him. 

“Hurry up,” I cry. “Let’s move!” 

The rest of the Fellowship ambles through the doors. 

“What is it, Y/N?” asks Boromir. “What were you so worried about?” 

“Probably nothing,” says Legolas with a shrug, eyeing my pointedly. “She could be lying. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, _Y/N?”_

I look away. Hot tears well in my eyes. Boromir gives me a strange look, but says nothing. 

Get it together. Get it together. Get it together. 

We clamber into the chamber. I shiver in the pressing dark. Apparently, the hobbits share my concern, because Pippin says, “How about a little light, Gandalf?” 

“Save me from the unmannerliness of the Tooks,” mutters the wizard. Nonetheless, he raises his staff. A sudden flare of white light shoots from the top. 

I recoil in dismay. 

Nothing could have prepared me for this sight. Across the floor, dwarf skeletons are strewn in unnatural positions. Bony hands clutch cursed axes. Their rusting equipment is peppered with arrow holes and suspicious slashes that could have come from swords… or something worse. 

“This is no mine,” says Boromir grimly, surveying the battle scene. “This is a tomb.” 

“No,” gasps Gimli, horrified. He crumples to his knees. With a crunch, his leg goes through the rib of his fallen kinsman. I stumble backwards. “No,” he repeats, disbelievingly. 

Everywhere I go, death. 

I can only watch as Gimli, son of Gloin, howls in anguish. 

Legolas watches Gimli with some mixture of disdain and pity. Crouching, he pulls a crudely-fashioned arrow out of a bloodstained skeleton. “Goblins.” 

We draw our swords. Gimli, still weeping, staggers to his feet, and we back out of the chamber. 

“We make for the gap of Rohan,” says Boromir. There is an edge of panic to his voice I’ve never heard before. “We never should have come here.” 

The Fellowship lumbers out into the night. 

The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I can sense something behind us. It is alive, plotting. Dangerous. 

Before I can say anything, Frodo is pulled, screaming, to the ground-- he cries out, Aragorn and Boromir burst forwards, swords blazing. Aragorn, yelling, severs the tentacle wrapped around Frodo’s torso, but it doesn’t do much good: the monster-- what is it?-- hisses in anger and rears back, tentacles writhing, snaking, striking, missing. I shriek. Frantically, Boromir hacks at the other tentacles, but in vain: suddenly, twenty more erupt, contorting savagely, out of the boiling and black water-- curse that I ever came on this quest! 

I careen backwards into Legolas, who is shooting arrow after useless arrow at whatever abomination is before us. The creature snatches Frodo and yanks him into the lake. With a horrible yell, Aragorn charges the monster, and it flings Frodo across the lake into Boromir’s arms. Tentacles are everywhere. The horrible smell of flesh, of alien blood, is sickening me. I want to vomit. I want to curl into a ball and weep. 

“Into the mines!” roars Gandalf, at the same time that Boromir yells, “Legolas!” 

Blondie shoots another quite useless arrow at the monster-- not that I’ve done anything-- and Aragorn and Boromir flounder out of the water, dragging Frodo with them. We retreat into the Moria chamber: and none too soon, because as the doors slam shut, the coiling tentacles slither around the door and rip them away. An ear-shattering crash comes as the cliff face collapses into the space that the beautiful dwarf doors once occupied, throwing us into a pitch-black dark. With one last hideous wail, the monster slides back into the Plutonian deep. 

I have to get back to Earth. 

“Now we have but one choice: we must face the long dark of Moria.” Gandalf’s voice is ominous. “Be on your guard ... there are older and fouler things than the Orcs in the deep places of the world.” 

Yes, Gandalf. Like the Balrog that kills your mortal form and leaves you at the mercy of the judgement of the Valar. 

We walk in silence through the deep of Moria. Huge caverns are crossed by precarious, arching bridges; this was once a wonder of the world. Gold and gems twinkle faintly in the dim light cast by Gandalf’s scepter. “Quietly, now,” he says. “It’s a four-day journey to the other side. Let us hope that our presence will go unnoticed.” 

Let us _hope?!_ In Moria? If hope is all we have left to rely on, we are truly screwed. 

“Come, Y/N,” calls Gandalf. “You must see this.” Reverently, he strokes a refractory silvery metal on the wall. “The wealth of Moria was not in gold or jewels, but in mithril.” 

I peer down into the endless depths of the mine, wondering how deep the dwarves must have delved in its pursuit to awaken a Balrog. Mithril is beautiful. But it won’t bring me back home. 

We continue onwards. 

Casually, Gandalf mentions, “Bilbo had a shirt of mithril rings that Thorin gave him.” 

“That was a kingly gift,” says Gimli, impressed. 

“Yes,” says Gandalf. “I never told him, but its worth was more than that of the Shire.” 

“A kingly gift, even for a King under the Mountain,” I marvel. 

“A King under any Mountain,” says Legolas, rudely, “should be willing to part with treasure that isn’t his.” 

“It was one necklace, Legolas. And the entire treasure had been a dragon’s hoard for almost a century--” 

“--which is a mere--” 

“--blink in the life of an elf, I know. Gee, I wonder who said that one?” 

“He abandoned his kin. He told them they would share in the treasure and he lied.” 

“It wasn’t his fault. He was doing it to protect everyone!” 

“Oh, was he?” Legolas scoffs. “Yet he and the rest of his bloodline died that day.” 

“I heard he wasn’t the only one to lose someone they loved on Ravenhill.” 

Legolas’s expression turns dangerous. Abruptly, he whips around and nocks an arrow. “Another word and I will end your life here in Moria. No one will ever know.” 

A part of me knows I crossed a line. A part of me feels terrible. So I stay silent and roll my eyes. 

We’ve stopped at a fork. Ahead of us, the passage splits into three. Each is a dark tunnel with no discernible end. 

Something scuttles in the darkness. 

A pale creature with luminous eyes. Cursed with life beyond what is natural. Infatuated with a Ring of power. 

And below us, a Balrog. 

“What’s wrong?” murmurs Boromir, rubbing my back. 

“Nothing,” I lie, smiling up at his concerned face. He smiles back trustingly. 

“Are we lost?” asks Pippin loudly. 

The scuttling stops. 

“No, I don’t think we are,” responds Merry. “Shush. Gandalf’s thinking.” 

“Merry?” 

“What?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

Merry shoots his cousin a look. 

Meanwhile, Frodo has approached Gandalf. They exchange a few hushed words. The only phrases I can make out are “Gollum” and “three days,” which give me all the information I need to know. 

I look back. 

An emaciated creature leers at me, blinking with malice, and darts back into the deep of Moria. 

I turn back around. Frodo is still talking. “I wish the Ring had never come to me,” he confesses. Honestly, I don’t blame him. I wish I had never fallen into Middle-Earth. “I wish none of this had ever happened.” Big mood. 

“So do all who live to see such times,” answers Gandalf with finality. “But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” 

I scoff. What a load of bullshit. If I could decide what to do with the time that is given to me, I’d be with my family right now. 

I jump. Aragorn is behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I thought sneaking up on people was an elf thing-- oh yeah, he was raised as Estel by Lord Elrond. 

“You’re troubled.” 

I probe the atmosphere for his aura. “So are you.” 

“You, more so.” 

“I can’t sense my own energy.” 

He ponders this. “Interesting.” 

“Isn’t this the part where you ask me what I’m troubled about… or something?” 

“If you want it to be.” 

Huh. “Maybe I don’t.” 

“But maybe you do,” he presses. 

“If I could really, truly decide what to do with the time that is given to me, I would be at home. With my family.” 

“I understand. There is no shame, if you so choose, in returning home now.” 

Trust me, Aragorn, I would have no qualms about returning if I could. “I can’t.” 

“Yes, you can. We would not hold you in any less esteem if you did. If I could return to my mother, I would.” 

“No, you don’t understand. Elrond said a higher power wants me here and that’s why I’m on this quest. I am, quite literally, unable to return. At the risk of my life. And at the risk of Middle Earth.” 

“...Oh.” 

I smile, but it does not reach my eyes. “We both have destinies to accept.” 

He laughs morosely. “I suppose we do.” 

“Ah!” says Gandalf, brightly. “It’s that way!” He points to the right tunnel. We scramble to our feet. 

“He’s remembered,” says Merry, relieved. 

“No,” says Gandalf. “But the air doesn’t smell so foul down here. When in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose.” He laughs. “Yes.” 

We pass through an arched doorway and come out into an empty space. It feels freer than before; less claustrophobic. I get the sense that it’s an enormous hall-- we just can’t see it in the dark. 

Gandalf pauses. “Let me risk a little more light.” He taps his staff. 

A brilliant light blazes from the top of the scepter. _Enormous_ doesn’t cut it. We gasp at the sight of a distant roof and a high-ceilinged hall, upheld by mighty pillars of stone shot through by veins of gold. Black walls are polished to a glassy shine, and I catch a sight of myself: I look weary and hopeless. Someone who has given up. 

“Well, there’s an eye-opener and no mistake!” exclaims Sam. 

I look ahead. 

A wooden door, smashed to pieces, reveals another, smaller room. There are Black Arrows embedded in its remains. Goblin skeletons are strewn in the doorway. We rush in behind Gimli. A singular, forlorn ray of sunlight streams weakly through a hole in the roof. It illuminates the writing on the block of white stone in the center of the room. 

Gimli crumples to his knees. 

“‘Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria,’” reads Gandalf dolefully. “He is dead, then. It is as I feared.” 

Gimli weeps. “Kilmin malur ni zaram kalil ra narag. Kheled-zâram. Balin tazlifi.” 

Carefully, Gandalf lifts the remains of what used to be a book from the slab of stone. It’s been through a lot. 

And it’s caked in dried blood. 

The pages, worn and brittle, crack as he opens it. 

“We must move on,” mutters Legolas urgently to Aragorn. “We cannot linger.” 

I turn to him angrily. “Give Gimli a moment! Eru Iluvatar!” 

Gandalf reads aloud. “They have taken the Bridge and the second hall: we have barred the gates ... but cannot hold them for long ... the ground shakes. Drums, drums in the deep ... we cannot get out.” The Fellowship is unnerved. We huddle together subconsciously. “A shadow moves in the dark. Will no one save us? They are coming.” 

Pippin backs away. 

They are coming. 

He stumbles against a well. His hand brushes the skull of an armored skeleton. 

They are coming. 

It tumbles, clattering with all the ferocity of the drums, down the shaft, pulling the rest of the skeleton with it. 

We freeze. 

Gandalf turns on Pippin. “Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!” 

Pippin’s chastened expression will not save us from what comes next. 

They are coming. 

A low, rolling _boom_ rises from the depths. 

_Boom._

_Boom._

From below us, the horns of war. Harsh cries. 

And drums. 

_drums in the deep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> (i don't know dwarvish-- i can read their runes but i don't speak the language, sorry)  
> Mellon- friend (but you probably already knew that)  
> Eru Iluvatar- essentially the Elvish "God," so saying "Eru Iluvatar" would be like saying "Jesus!" or "Oh my God!"  
> \-----  
> hello again! a lot of feels in this chapter, lol. for audvocado's Daily Dose of Culture (wow this should really be a thing) the OBVIOUS choice is in the hall of the mountain king by grieg, which is a fun song that you've probably heard before. i encourage you guys to take a listen!  
> in other news, i do have pretty much the whole plot planned out for this work in particular. after this is done, we're looking at probably like a more avant-garde, abstract one-shotty type piece in like three parts or something, and then i'm going to go right for another long work. details on that come next time. see you soon, beautiful readers!


	14. don't call me doll.

“Mr. Frodo!” exclaims Sam. 

Frodo looks down. Sting is glowing cold blue. 

Legolas’s eyes go wide. “Orcs.” 

Aragorn whips around to yell at the hobbits. “Get back! Stay close to Gandalf.” Then, he turns to me. “You should too.” 

“No,” I say. I can’t run. I have to learn to control this. 

I have to survive. 

I reach deep inside me. Someone, or something, brought me here. Against my will. I am a prisoner in an alternate universe. And I will not stop until everything that is hunting me is dead. 

No emotion. 

Only death. 

My eyes glow. 

“No,” I repeat. “I’m fighting.” 

Aragorn and Boromir exchange a glance. “If you say so, love,” says Boromir. “Be careful.” 

No, Boromir. There is no caution in battle. 

And I have come to make war on God. 

Aragorn and Boromir slam the doors shut and wedge them with anything they can find-- spears, swords, axes. They pry weapons from the hands of the honorless dead. Boromir glimpses something through the doors. 

With shock and indignant disbelief in his eyes, he says, “They have a cave troll!” 

“Let them come!” bellows Gimli. “There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!” 

The door bursts open in a cascade of wood fragments. Splinters rain down on my head. A legion of goblins, along with a cave troll, charge into the tomb, yelling. I snatch two rusty swords from the ground with glowing hands: they look like they go together. Something about them is distinctly un-dwarf-like. When I hold them, they, too, glow. 

Gimli ducks a blow and buries his axes in two goblin helmets. Aragorn and Boromir are wading around, swords gleaming. Gandalf, too, raises Glamdring and joins the fray with a shout. 

Legolas is taking potshots from a safe distance. 

At least he’s protecting the hobbits. 

“Eh! You’re ‘olding the swords all wrong, luv!” An orc with a clotted mass of hair on the top of a deformed skull ogles me. “You dunno howta fight, do you?” 

“I may not know how to fight you,” I growl, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t fight you!” 

I leap on him. He snarls animalistically and brandishes a crude axe. I parry his blow and swipe at him with one sword, knocking his weapon out of his hands, and then immediately follow it with the other sword. His head comes off in one clean swipe. 

Huh. 

The cave troll is slogging around, swinging a massive club wildly in the general direction of Aragorn, who is stumbling backwards. The troll roars. He is out of help. He is out of time. The troll goes in for the killing blow, Aragorn ducks-- 

And then Boromir is there, plunging his sword into the troll’s arm. Green blood spews from the wound. 

Another goblin grimaces at me. “Enjoying the show? What’s a doll like you doin’ in a rough place like this?” 

I bare my teeth and curl my hand around my sword, wiping blood from my nose with the other hand. “Don’t call me doll.” 

With that, I drive my sword into his body again and again. His blood splatters on the ground. He screams. 

It’s music to my ears. 

Soon, I, too, am drudging through the battle, a whirlwind of double blades. I prefer these swords to any other weapon I’ve ever fought with: it’s much easier to think of your swords as extensions of your limbs when your limbs can be the same fucking length. 

A huge orc, all muscle and swagger, spits in my face. I snarl. 

“Whattsamatter, girl? Aren’t you gonna kill me?” 

“Yep,” I say, leaping at him. 

To my surprise, he has the wherewithal to sidestep. “No, you ain’t. You should get one of your Men in here to fight me. Or the Elf. A girl’s hardly a worthy opponent.” 

“Anyone in here could kill you,” I say, crossing my swords in an X in front of me and then bringing them outwards in one lithe motion. “It’s just that I can do it most efficiently.” 

He laughs loudly. “Can you?” 

On instinct, I grab him with my bare fist and shove my hand down his throat. He gags. My hand makes contact with something: I pull it out and it dissolves into a green, fluorescent fluid. The life leaves his eyes. 

“See?” I say to his corpse. “Efficient.” 

I slit his throat for good measure. 

“Hey,” says Sam cheerfully, “I think I’m getting the hang of this!” 

I turn to look at him. He’s abandoned his sword and is now walloping goblin after goblin with what appears to be… a saucepan? 

What a legend. 

Suddenly, Sam drops his pan. “Mr. Frodo!” 

“Aragorn!” cries Frodo. He is being lifted off the wall by the tip of the troll’s spear. “Aragorn!” 

Aragorn turns. His sword clatters to the ground. “Frodo,” he yells, in shock. 

Everyone calm down. Jesus Christ. How do you people have no idea what he’s wearing under that tunic? 

The spear head slams Frodo full-force against the stone wall. I wince. Oof. That’s gotta hurt. He collapses to the ground, dead by all outward appearance. But I can sense his energy, stronger than ever. 

“FRODO!” screams Merry. He and Pippin jump on the cave troll. 

My eyes glow brighter. 

I lay one luminescent hand on its skin. The troll howls in pain, its aura burning. 

It falls to its knees. I think it’s begging for mercy. How strange. My hands are almost caressing it, now. I watch indifferently as it gives one last roar and disintegrates. 

I look down. My hands are covered in troll blood. Ew. 

Aragorn rushes to Frodo’s side. He’s slumped on the floor. The rest of the Fellowship gathers around him, horrified. 

“Mr. Frodo--” sobs Sam. His voice breaks. 

“No, wait,” I say. The others look at me weirdly. 

Suddenly, Frodo sits bolt upright and coughs, gasping a huge breath. 

“He’s alive,” says Sam disbelievingly. 

“I’m alright,” confirms Frodo. “I’m not hurt.” 

“You should be dead,” says Aragorn confusedly. “That spear would have skewered a wild boar.” 

“I think there’s more to this Hobbit than meets the eye,” says Gandalf cryptically. Frodo opens his shirt to reveal the mithril vest. 

“Mithril!” exclaims Gimli. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.” 

Drums in the deep. 

“Nooo,” I moan. I can’t do this anymore. The glow in my eyes, on my skin, fades. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I stumble. 

“Y/N!” says Boromir, alarmed. The rest of the Fellowship turns from Frodo to look at me. 

“Why can’t we… pause…” Or at least that’s what I try to say, but it comes out as more of a “Hnnnrgh.” 

I sway once, twice, on my feet. 

Then falling, and blackness, and I remember nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! so reader has gone sicko mode, cool beans. so i promised you guys details on my up-and-coming works. for the one-shot, i do need ideas. i'm looking to do kind of a fluffier piece that still has an acceptable character arc, because i want to cool down after i finish this story. after that, i probably will take a week-long hiatus. for the next fic-- ooooh boyyyy am i excited! i'm going to be doing a modern!au the hobbit, so it'll be reader and the company. it's going to be like a spy novel (very mission impossible/james bond-esque) where the reader is an independent contractor who has been hired by gandalf to assist the company and run the tech. i've cooked up some pretty cool landscapes in my head (dol guldur as a nuclear power plant that had a meltdown, ravenhill as an abandoned warehouse, mirkwood as an abandoned subway system)! the only thing is i don't know whether to make it platonic or to do another romance subplot, so leave a comment on what you want to see and also who we should be shipping dear reader with, lol.  
> also, i need help. if anyone knows how to do the whole beta reading thing-- do you share a google docs? is there a way to dm on here? is there a feature i don't know about?-- leave a comment, s'il-vous plait et merci beaucoup!  
> in other events, today's Daily Dose of Culture is debussy's la cathedrale engloutie (the sunken cathedral). it has such a cool name and it's this beautiful, haunting piece. very impressionist, VERY debussy. i think that's it, see you lovely reader soon!


	15. the awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations at the end, as usual :)

I blink awake. Sunlight streams through my eyelids. The birds are singing, but otherwise, silence. 

That’s weird. My apartment never gets this much sun. And I thought my roommate had her boyfriend over. 

I sit up and yawn. I had a dream last night-- I was glowing, and I killed an ogre, or something. The meaning and details of it all are already fading into the forgotten recesses of my mind. I have to call my mom today. 

Wait-- I’m not in my apartment. Where am I? 

_check your surroundings for immediate threats._

I straighten bolt upright and glance wildly around. For some reason, I feel blind, like I’m missing a sense. But I’m not numb (I’m on someone’s back), and there is a smell of petrichor around me, and I can see clearly. The forest is twinkling golden, a glorious autumn daydream. 

I turn. Someone is speaking-- I can only see his back, and his remarkably blond hair. “The fairest of all the dwellings of my people. There are no trees like the trees of this land, for in autumn the leaves fall not, but turn to gold.” I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I still feel bleary, and this guy’s gentle voice isn’t doing much to help. “Not till the spring comes and the new green opens do they fall, and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers; and the floor of the wood is golden, and golden is the roof, and its pillars are of silver, for the bark of the trees is smooth and grey. So still our songs in Mirkwood say-- Look who’s awake,” he adds, turning to me. 

Everything rushes back to me in an overwhelming flood of light and color. The elf is Legolas. 

Where’s Gandalf? 

“Is he… gone?” I murmur. 

Legolas looks at me strangely. “Who?” 

I’m not supposed to know he’s dead. 

“Gandalf,” I say, trying to cover up. “Where is he? And why do I feel like I’m missing a sense?” 

“Gandalf--” starts Legolas, but then his voice breaks and he looks down. I brace myself for an intense wave of sadness, but it never comes. 

I frown. 

“I’m missing a sense,” I repeat. “I don’t… feel things.” 

“You’re numb?” says Boromir, and I realize that it is his back that I’m on. “Where?” 

“No, no, emotionally.” My emotions are still there, but less intense, like a desaturated photograph of a sunset. I have no qualms about it; lately my tactical nature has seemed to dissipate in the face of danger. Something about this, though, disquiets me. 

Then I realize. 

I’m still feeling _my_ emotions. But I’m not feeling _others’_ emotions anymore. I had gotten so used to feeling for people’s auras, I mistook their feelings for my own and assumed I was the one being overemotional. Really, it was the culmination of everyone’s emotions. 

“My gift is gone,” I say. “I don’t feel people’s souls anymore.” 

“...Oh,” says Aragorn. “Are you alright?” 

I’m completely alright. In fact, I can’t help but be a little relieved. I don’t _want_ to have to deal with everyone else’s feelings. “I’m fine,” I say. “What happened to Gandalf?” 

The Fellowship falls silent. 

“He… fell,” says Frodo, finally. “Through smoke and flame.” 

“The bane of Moria,” I say, trying to sound like I’ve come to a sudden realization. “A Balrog of Morgoth.” 

Aragorn nods. 

“Gather your strength, lass,” says Gimli. He looks very much on edge-- in complete contrast to Blondie, who looks like he might burst into song at any moment. “Stay close, young Hobbits. They say a great sorceress lives in these woods. An Elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell… and are never seen again!” 

I disguise a snicker as a cough. He’s talking about Galadriel. 

Galadriel. 

I can return to Earth. 

I hesitate. Return to Earth. But without ever seeing Gandalf again? Is that really what I want? 

Sentimentality explodes, a burning firework, in my chest. I push it down. Yes, that is exactly what I want. I want to return to Earth and never see any of these people again. 

_even boromir?_ asks a tiny voice in my head. 

Yes. Even Boromir. Middle Earth can go to hell. 

“Well, here’s one dwarf she won’t ensnare!” boasts Gimli, snapping me out of my reverie. “I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!” 

“How come you haven’t noticed them, then?” I tease. 

“Who?” demands Gimli. 

Suddenly, a host of armed Elves drop from the trees, nocking arrows as they land silently. Their captain-- Haldir-- steps forwards. 

“Them,” I say. 

“The Dwarf breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark,” says Haldir, deadpan. “Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion.” 

“Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien,” replies Legolas. Neither of them smile. 

“A, Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen,” says Haldir, moving on to Aragorn. 

“Haldir,” nods Aragorn. 

“So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves!” complains Gimli. “Speak words we can all understand!” 

“We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days,” says Haldir, looking down at Gimli. These people need to get over the Silmarils. Honestly. 

“Do you know what this Dwarf says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!” 

“That was not so courteous,” says Aragorn sternly. 

Haldir moves on to Frodo. Something about this guy reminds me a bit of… Lindir, maybe? If Lindir had a blond, less goofy brother, it would probably be Haldir. “You bring great evil with you,” he tells Frodo. He turns to Aragorn. “You can go no further.” 

Sam and Pippin turn and look at Frodo, who looks down. 

It’s not his fault. 

\----- 

We have been sitting for an eternity. Haldir and Aragorn are still arguing. 

“Boe ammen veriad lîn. Andelu i ven!” Aragorn’s voice is pleading. 

Haldir whispers something. 

I’m sick of this. I hop off the log I’m sitting on, only to find that my legs are refusing to support me. I waver and then my knees buckle; luckily, Boromir is there to catch me. 

What happens when he isn’t? 

Like Gandalf isn’t? 

Is this my fault? Would things have been different if I’d stayed awake? 

Can I save Boromir? 

“Who is the girl?” asks Haldir in the Common Tongue, turning to me. His hair whips in the wind and golden leaves fall to the ground behind him. I am reminded of Lindir again, and I look away. 

I’m trying to get out of Middle Earth, and I’m forgetting everyone here who cares. 

I frown. Why do I care if they care? Why _should_ I care if they care? 

“I am Y/N of the Eastern Kingdom,” I tell Haldir, ignoring the look Legolas gives me. “Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn.” 

“A, pedil edhellen.” 

“That I do.” 

“And you cannot walk? Are you injured?” 

“Yes,” answers Aragorn for me. “She is injured, but it is beyond even my skill to heal. She must see the Lady Galadriel. It is an injury of the fea.” 

Haldir’s expression turns grave. “I am afraid that is impossible. I cannot allow you inside Lorien.” 

“Henio, aníron boe ammen i dulu lîn!” implores Aragorn. 

I turn. They will probably continue to argue until the end of the world. Boromir is exchanging soft words with Frodo. 

“Gandalf’s death was not in vain, nor would he have you give up hope,” murmurs Boromir. “You carry a heavy burden, Frodo. Don’t carry the weight of the dead.” 

“He doesn’t,” I mutter to Boromir. “I do. I should have been there.” 

Haldir’s ears twitch. He turns. “Very well. Here we will stay awhile, and come to the city of Galadhrim on the morrow.” 

Guilt-tripping. It always works. 

_That was not very wise nor kind of you._

I whip around. “Who’s there?” 

Aragorn, Legolas, and Haldir laugh at me. Oh. Galadriel. 

I frown. “How does she get into my head from such a long range?” 

_I think you know how._

_the ring,_ I reply. 

_Very good. And you are not of this world?_

No point in lying to her. _no. i’m from the future. i think._

_You are right there. There is no point in lying to me. Yes, Y/N, you are from the future. However, it is not as it seems._

_what do you mean?_

_You might call it a parallel universe. However, it is really more of a parallel dimension._

_what’s the difference?_

_All will be explained in time._ Then she falls silent. 

_come back._

No response. 

_i need an explanation._

Nothing. 

_now._

Silence. 

“Galadriel,” I growl in frustration. The rest of the Fellowship turns to me. I laugh and blush, hoping to pass it off. 

Gimli scoots over to me. “What did she tell you?” he mutters. 

“Confidential,” I whisper back. “It’s not my place to disclose the goings-on of her Ladyship’s life.” 

“The girl knows her place,” says Haldir approvingly. Fucking elves and their long-distance super-hearing. “You would do well to know yours, _Dwarf.”_

“Hey!” I say. “He has a name, and it’s not ‘Dwarf.’” 

Haldir’s expression doesn’t change at all. Does he even feel emotion? “That is not my concern.” 

_In response to your question,_ adds Galadriel, _yes, my Captain does feel emotion. He simply chooses not to show it as brashly as the daughters of Men._

_i’m NOT emotional._

_You continue to tell yourself this. But in your heart of hearts, you know it not to be true._

“Yes, it is!” I snap. 

“Begging your pardon, but is everything alright, Miss Y/N, ma’am?” asks Sam, looking at me worriedly. I grin. 

“I’m fine. Just having a conversation.” 

“It sounds like an argument,” says Aragorn. 

“It’s one-sided,” I mutter. Both the elves hear me. Haldir says nothing. Legolas snickers. 

Haldir looks at the sky. “Darkness falls. We will spend the night here at Cerin Amroth.” 

\----- 

The next morning, I sit with Frodo and Sam on the top of a platform that winds, aerial and prim, around the bifurcated trunk of an ancient tree. I breathe in the forest air: with each bucolic breath, I can feel my power returning to me. I woke up this morning able to (shakily) walk. The fragrance of the elanor flowers brings strength back to my body and mind. The only downside to this is that now I am starting to feel everyone else’s emotions again, which is not something I want to be dealing with right now. 

Before I can further ponder the inconvenient return of my dynamic capacity, Sam sits up with a puzzled expression, gazes around, and rubs his eyes. 

“What is it, Sam?” asks Frodo. From Sam, a faint aura of fascinated confusion permeates the air. 

“It’s an odd thing, Mr. Frodo-- and you, too, of course, Miss Y/N, ma’am,” he adds, bashfully. “It’s sunlight and bright day, right enough. I thought Elves were all for moon and stars. But this is more Elvish than anything I ever heard tell of. I feel as if I was in a song, if you take my meaning.” 

Huh. I take another intoxicating breath. If I had earbuds in, and if I was listening to some sort of light pop-rock type thing, I really _could_ be in a music video. 

“I think I do know what you mean, Sam,” I say. “It makes it easier to-- love life, I guess? Or to make life feel more picturesque?” 

“To romanticize just the act of living, as it were,” says Frodo, nodding. “What’s ‘picturesque?’” 

Oh, right. They don’t have the word “picturesque” here. No French suffixes in Middle Earth. 

Haldir speaks from behind us, and we all jump. I really doubt he feels emotion. I can’t even feel an aura coming from him. “You feel the power of the Lady of Galadhrim. Would it please you to climb with me up Cerin Amroth?” 

I look down uncertainly. Would Boromir be okay with that? But then Sam jumps up like an excited puppy invited to go for a walk, and saying “no” is out of the question-- I can’t disappoint Samwise Gamgee. 

We follow Haldir up an intricate series of platforms. By the end, I’m huffing and puffing and basically leaning on Haldir. 

He says nothing. 

_Y/N._

I frown. _galadriel?_

_No, not Galadriel._ The Voice sounds amused. 

My eyes widen. _sauron._

_Yes. Very good, love._

No. No. “Get away from me!” I shout. 

“Y/N?” 

I blink. The Voice is gone. I am surprised to find myself reaching for the Ring around Frodo’s neck. He frowns at me. 

“It was _speaking_ to me,” I say in horrified wonder. “In my head.” 

“It does that to me, too, sometimes,” says Frodo. “It’s calling me. Always.” 

“That’s dark magic,” says Sam. “Unnatural, nasty stuff, it is.” 

Haldir still stays silent. 

We reach the canopy that forms the high aurelian ceiling of Lothlorien. When my head emerges over the top, I gasp. 

Middle Earth is beautiful. 

Valleys, plains, rolling mountains and rocky highlands and serpentine rivers that stretch into the great beyond. There is nothing like this on Earth. Nowhere. I feel a pang of sadness that squeezes my heart. Where I come from, there is no chance of the world looking like this, ever again. 

I sigh. 

“Are you alright, Miss Y/N?” Sam looks up at me. I plaster a tired smile onto my face. 

“Where I come from, there is nothing that looks like this.” My fake smile fades. “My world is burning in the fires of industry. Nothing will ever be so pristine again.” 

“I’m sure it can’t be _that_ bad,” says Frodo, completely unaware. 

I think of New York, London, Chicago. Of the factories I’ve seen. The Amazon River flows brown with their runoff. “It is that bad,” I say. I think of Europe. “There was once a great forest that covered everything where I came from. The world was the forest, and the forest was the world. The trees were alive, and life-giving.” 

“And then what happened?” asks Sam. 

“And then empires rose, and kingdoms took root,” I say, “and they cut it all down. The trees cried out, and cursed every cruel king, so the kings devised machines to cut the forest down for them. And now there is nothing left. Only steel and stone and smoke. For miles, and miles, as far as the eye can see. As far as the eagle can fly.” 

I look at Haldir. For the first time, I see emotion on his face. 

He looks like his heart is breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion- Well-met (welcome), Legolas, son of Thranduil  
> Govannas vîn gwennen le, Haldir o Lórien- Our Fellowship stands in your debt, Haldir of Lorien  
> A, Aragorn in Dúnedain istannen le ammen- Oh, Aragorn of the Dunedain (Men of the West; descendants of Elros Peredhel), you are known to us  
> Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul- I spit on your grave  
> Boe ammen veriad lîn. Andelu i ven- We need your protection. The road is fell  
> Êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn- A star shines upon the hour of our meeting  
> A, pedil edhellen- Oh, you speak Elvish  
> Henio, aníron boe ammen i dulu lîn- Please, understand, we need your support  
> \----  
> hellooo! sorry for the delay, i've been in a not-great place mentally the past couple days :/ anyway when this is all over i'm going to post like three chapters in one day and be happy :D i loved the idea of haldir being like, a soft plant mom haha, cause in the movies they literally make him cold but like... soft boi? u know what i'm talking abt. like from "we could have shot him in the dark" to when aragorn hugs him at helms deep hehe  
> anyway today's Daily Dose of Culture is happiness is a butterfly by lana del rey. ik it's not classical or anything but it's just. a really good song lol  
> see u lovely people next time! xo, audvocado


	16. ✨do the dimensional disco!✨

Even at night, Lothlorien is filled with a soft light.

Celeborn stands among the mallorn trees, haloed in the rays of the moon. Like all the descendants of Elu Thingol, he is beautiful: not rugged, and not effeminate either. He simply… is. His voice, his feline movement, suggests that he could have lived a thousand years.

Which he has, and more.

Beside him stands Galadriel. I can’t help but think that she must be irritated that the Ring has passed into her lands. The Silmarils tore her family apart. Was that not enough?

Like the Captain of her guard, though, she shows no emotion: not cold by any means, but warm and serene. If the phrase “summer nights” were an elf, it would be her. How could she go through so much, and still remain tranquil?

 _It takes time,_ she says in my head with a Mona Lisa smile. _And practice._

Celeborn’s gaze bores into Aragorn. “The enemy knows you have entered here. What hope you had in secrecy is now gone. Nine there are here, but ten there were set out from Rivendell.” He pauses, scans the group. “Where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar.”

My mouth twists. Gandalf’s aura was like a safety net: steadfast and calming, even if you don’t notice it. Without it, I’m falling through time and space into darkness.

“Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land,” murmurs Galadriel. “He has fallen into Shadow.”

A strong wave of sorrow hits me. It dawns on me that it’s coming from Galadriel. Even the Lady of Elves is starting to give up hope. I don’t blame her. Saruman is a traitor, Gandalf is dead. What now is left of the White Council? Two is hardly anything. Who are she and Elrond supposed to trust now? The Blue Wizards? Radagast?

“He was taken by both Shadow and flame,” says Legolas, bowing his head. “A Balrog of Morgoth. For we went needlessly into the net of Moria.”

Not needlessly. Anything but needlessly. It had to happen.

So why does it hurt?

Focus, Y/N, focus! You’re here to speak to Galadriel. If you can get out of Middle Earth now, you can save yourself a whole lot of trouble.

I almost growl in frustration. My gift is going haywire. Everyone is feeling so much grief, so many emotions. And I am weakened from Moria. It’s like I can’t handle it.

Shut up. I can handle anything.

I have to get out.

I turn my attention back to Galadriel, who is speaking to Gimli. “Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dûm fill your heart Gimli, son of Glóin. For the world has grown full of peril, and in all lands, love is now mingled with grief.”

I watch Gimli. He seems entranced by Galadriel. So much for “evil sorceress.”

She turns her stare on Boromir, who fidgets. He’ll betray us and try to take the Ring, of course.

Unless I can help it.

No, no, no. Those are everyone else’s thoughts. I need to get out of Middle Earth. Today. Now.

 _They are not the thoughts of the Fellowship,_ says Galadriel silently. _They are my thoughts. Even if I could help you, I would not._

I feel out for her aura. She’s not lying.

But to my surprise, when I reach out for her energy, there is something else there.

A darker hum.

With my mind, I reach for it.

“NO,” thunders Galadriel. Her voice is algific and all-encompassing. It shakes the foundations of the Earth. It splits, crackles, vibrates in my bones, liquefies my breath.

I stare at her.

“Do not touch that, Y/N,” she says, back to her old self. “You would not survive it.”

“The Ring again,” I breathe. “It… has a soul?”

“No,” she says. “Your perception is weakened. Before, the auras of your companions were enough to cloud the Ring’s power. Now, you feel its pull. It calls to you.”

“Why?” I glare at it. Its aura blackens: it’s glaring back.

“Come,” she says, gliding away. “I will explain everything.”

\-----

“What do you know about dimensions?” asks Galadriel.

We sit in the chambers that she and Celeborn share. After thousands of years, they still sleep in the same bed, which is made of a living mallorn tree.

“Um,” I say. “Like, Doctor Strange dimensions?”

Galadriel gives me a funny look. “No. I am speaking of the dimensions which exist in your world: the first dimension, the second dimension, and so forth.”

“There’s a zeroth dimension, right?” I ask. Galadriel nods. I rack my brain to remember what I learned in geometry. “And that’s a point, with no length, width, or thickness.”

“Good. And what else?”

“There’s a first dimension, which is just a line, so just an X-dimension. The second dimension adds a Y-axis, so you can get shapes, like circles and squares, but everything exists on one plane.”

“And the third dimension?”

“It involves depth, so there’s a Z-axis. So you can get all sorts of solids, like cubes, and spheres, that have volume. That’s this dimension.”

“No,” says Galadriel. “The third dimension is your dimension. As of right now, you are in the fourth dimension.”

I frown. “But-”

“Think of it this way,” says Galadriel. “Imagine a line that exists on a plane. If a square could see, would they be able to see the line, assuming they are on the same plane?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Good. Would a point existing on the line be able to see the square?”

“Um… yes?”

“No,” says Galadriel. “The line is a dimension in of itself. Thus, the point cannot see anything that does not exist on that line.”

“Oh.”

“But the square can interact with the line, like this.” She draws an image on a piece of parchment. I squint at it.

“That’s just a square with a line through the middle,” I say.

“If there was a point beside that square, what would it see?”

“Something really wide blocking its path.”

“No. The point can’t tell it’s wide. All it sees is something blocking its path, so it assumes it’s a point.”

“Oh,” I say. That makes some sense.

“Now,” she says, “would either the point, the line, or the square be able to see a sphere that exists above their plane?”

“No,” I say.

“Good. But what happens if the sphere interacts with the plane?”

“The point sees another point again,” I realize. “But the square sees a cross-section of the sphere. A circle.”

“Very good,” says Galadriel. “And what happens if the sphere moves up and down?”

“The square sees a different cross-section of the sphere,” I say.

“So what happens?”

“The circle appears to… grow and shrink?”

“Good. And?”

I focus. This is exploding my brain. I don’t know if I can concentrate any harder. “The sphere can move all the way up, and disappear entirely from the view of the square, the line, and the point.”

“Very good. Now imagine that there is a fourth dimension.”

I frown. “Wouldn’t I just perceive it as existing as a part of our dimension? I mean, since the point thinks the square is another point, and the square thinks the sphere is a circle--”

Galadriel beams. “Very good,” she says proudly. “That dimension, the fourth one, is the one Middle Earth exists on. We can be seen, or not.”

My head is spinning. I frown. “Okay. But how did I get here?”

“Interdimensional interaction requires more energy the higher up you go,” says Galadriel. “It requires an immense amount of energy to move between the third and fourth dimensions. Only certain beings can even imagine interacting. Few can actually go through with it.”

“Can you?”

Galadriel laughs. It sounds like a million twinkling stars. “No, I can’t. The Valar can, and the Maiar, and Eru Iluvatar.”

“So one of the Valar can send me back?”

“Yes,” says Galadriel. “Or…”

“Or what?” I say excitedly. This is the answer to all my problems!

 _Or one of the Fallen,_ she says silently. My smile fades.

_oh. like sauron?_

_Yes. Like Sauron._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do u like my title? lol  
> here's a little tip for u guys: i'm using hemingway editor to make my style a little more concise and easy to read! i'm not a huge fan of the way i'm writing right now, so. it's super duper useful if any of u guys are doing creative writing of ur own!  
> today's Daily Dose of Culture is flatland: the movie, where my (quite basic) understanding of dimension comes from. i watched it in school one day, and u can buy the digital version for like 20 bucks online. (it's the one about the little girl named hex who becomes a prophet. it's kind of dumb, ngl, but watch it anyway because it's really worth it if ur taking geometry or theoretical anything.) i think that's it. toodles, good readers!


	17. emotion does not mean weakness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pls read chapter notes :)

Galadriel has ordered me to swim in the Silverlode in the hopes of healing my gift. “There is powerful magic in the water,” she's told me. 

But not powerful enough to send me back to Earth. 

Tears well in my eyes, and I swipe them away. 

I descend to the ground and walk barefoot among the elanor flowers. The hobbits, Gimli, and Legolas sit in a pavilion under a tall tree, waited on by a group of elves. From the treetops, a haunting melody drifts downwards. 

“A lament for Gandalf,” says Legolas sadly. He’s changed into a silvery kirtle embroidered in shining white. It’s very Elvish. I can’t even find the energy to be mad at his presence. 

“What do they say about him?” asks Merry. 

“I have not the heart to tell you,” says Legolas. “For me, the grief is still too near. Y/N, where are you going?” 

I turn. “To swim in the Silverlode,” I say softly. “My power is all but gone.” 

We make eye contact. We both are sorrowful, albeit for different reasons. A moment of grudging mutual respect passes. 

And then it’s gone. Fucking elves. I hate this place, I want out of this dimension. I stalk off towards the river. 

The clear babble of its water grows louder. I strip off my bloodstained traveling clothes, changing into a light tunic dress. It feels amazing not to have to cover up my legs. I miss wearing shorts. 

And I miss ice cream. 

The Silverlode is exactly as its name suggests: silver. Upon closer inspection, I realize that its water is glassy-clear, and that the riverbed is a billion tiny stones of silver. It gives off a verdant fragrance that wafts around me with all the spooling fluidity of water itself. Like any living being, it has an aura about it: it is in a constant state of placid joy. I allow its energy to work out the tension in my legs, my shoulders, my back, my arms, my hands. I breathe it in, breathe it out. 

I scramble up a mallorn tree and tiptoe out onto one of its slender limbs, like a tightrope walker. I teeter precariously on the edge- wobble- fall forwards- 

Out of instinct, I whirl my arms to prevent falling. As ungraceful as it is, it works, and I am able to lean safely back onto the mallorn branch. 

Someone behind me snickers. 

I look around. I can’t see anyone behind the trees, or anywhere. How strange. I bounce lightly on my toes and execute a perfect swan dive, plunging through the water like a knife. 

It’s deeper than I thought. I realize this too late, and swim frantically for the top, cutting through the water with clean strokes. When I burst to the surface, heart pounding and breathing heavily, there is an elf sitting on a log beside the river. 

“Haldir,” I say in greeting, sinking self-consciously into the cold water. White fabric turns see-through when it gets wet, and Elvish fabric is no exception. I would kill for a good polyester-spandex swimsuit. I would kill for a Hershey’s kiss. 

“Y/N,” says Haldir, nodding. 

Awkward silence. 

“So,” I say, “what brings you to the Silverlode?” 

“Her Ladyship sent me to guard you.” 

That’s a lie. I can tell from his aura, which I can sense more by the second. I guess the Silverlode is truly magical. “No, she didn’t. I think the Lady Galadriel knows that I am capable of defending myself, blades or no.” 

He would probably blush if elves could. “That is true,” he admits, sighing. “I wished to hear more stories of the forests from your homeland.” 

“Haldir, my home is not the East. That was a lie to shield myself from the Enemy.” And from the Fellowship. At this point, everyone is the enemy. 

“I am well aware,” he says. “But there was some degree of truth to your story, was there not?” 

I look up at him, startled. He’s not angry that I lied to him? “Yes,” I say. “In another dimension, the world does not look like this.” 

“What does it look like?” 

I sigh. “It is more beautiful, in many ways. But in many ways, it is horrifying.” 

“For example?” 

“We have, um,” I falter. How did I explain it to Lindir again? “I think how I explained it to Lindir was that we have flying… steel… chariots… shaped like birds.” 

He looks at me strangely. 

“And they run on oil that we pump from underground.” 

“That’s more than a little far-fetched, don’t you-” 

“Ooh, and we also have ice cream- that’s the best part. I miss it a ton. It’s a cold dessert that melts in your mouth and it’s soft but not chewy, and,” I stop to breathe, “it comes in all sorts of flavors. Like vanilla, and chocolate, and-” 

Haldir’s eyebrows knit. “Vanilla? Chocolate?” 

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “We’re in Europe.” 

“No, we’re in Lorien.” 

“There isn’t chocolate here for another-” I do the math silently- “106 years!” 

“That’s not too long a wait,” says Haldir. 

“For you,” I say. “And I don’t even know if it ever gets introduced in this dimension!” 

“Ah.” 

“And we have machines to make all our clothing, and machines to make more machines, like cellphones, which are a small metal oblong box with a glass face. It works by lighting up and showing many pictures in rapid succession, so that it appears as one smooth movement. And you can speak to someone through it, even if they’re on the other side of the world. And you can send long messages within seconds, and get a response within seconds. And there’s never a shortage of food, because we have machines to fish for us and to prepare food, and so there is so much food that enough to feed millions goes to waste every week. And you are never hungry, because wherever you go, there’s a store with food. And everywhere has the same food, so you never have to worry about not liking the local food. And you can get regional food outside of the places it’s native to.” 

Haldir’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “That sounds rather utopic.” 

“Yes,” I sigh. “It is. But consider what it takes to make all that.” 

He frowns. 

“The flying chariots, we call them airplanes, they belch smoke into our atmosphere. So do the machines, and the machines to make more machines. And there are factories everywhere. It traps heat inside the Earth, so it’s heating up. There will soon be a shortage of water everywhere because all our freshwater is polluted.” 

“I’m… sorry, Y/N.” 

“That’s not it. Almost all the forests are gone. We burn them to make buildings, which makes even more smoke. And to get all that food, we raise animals just to be killed. In huge buildings, where many animals never even see the light of day, for their whole lives. Almost all the beautiful landscapes have been ruined by our lights, and our cities, and our smoke. There’s no respect for the Earth anymore.” 

Haldir frowns. “Why do the Valar not strike them down for their sins?” 

“I don’t know,” I say, stretching and climbing out of the stream. “I guess the Valar don’t interfere with my dimension.” 

“Perhaps they should.” Haldir tosses me a linen towel and a dress, averting his eyes. I wrap the towel around myself and sit beside him. 

“Yes,” I say. “They definitely should.” 

\----- 

Dinner in Lothlorien. I’m not hungry. 

I take one halfhearted bite of lamb. It doesn’t even taste like cardboard. It tastes like sand. I choke it down, then force a perfunctory smile at the rest of the Fellowship. “I’m tired. I think I’ll head to bed. Good evening.” 

“Losto vae,” calls Haldir. 

“Y/N?” asks Boromir. “Are you alright?” 

Yeah, just that I’m never going to get back to Earth. I’m never going to see my family again. “I’m fine.” 

He gets up and follows me. Normally it would be sweet. But can’t he see that I need space? “Are you sure? To me, you seem rather… dejected, my lady.” 

“I told you, I’m fine,” I snap, swatting him away. Boromir removes his hand from my waist. 

I don’t sob, not even when I’m flopped down, nestled into the soft lines of an Elvish bed. I don’t break. I am strong, and elves have good hearing. 

Still, wave after wave of searing despair crashes over my head. The sound of my own sniffling overwhelms and angers me. 

“Y/N?” 

My placid facade shatters. 

“Why are you here?!” I shout, rounding on the figure in my doorway. “Get out and leave me the _fuck_ alone!” 

Aragorn simply regards me calmly. 

“Oh,” I say, “it’s you.” 

“May I enter?” 

No. “Yes,” I sigh. 

“Thank you.” 

We sit in silence for a while before Aragorn says, “Galadriel told you something that you didn’t like.” 

I turn to face him. “Nice try, but wrong.” 

He looks hard at me. “That was a lie.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“You have your own agenda for being a part of this quest. My guess would be that she told you that she does not have the power to send you back to your homeworld. This, in turn, made you angry.” 

“It didn’t make me angry,” I snap. 

“It did. And the fëar around you are likely exacerbating the problem.” 

He’s bluffing, trying to snatch the truth blindfolded. All I say is, “Fëar?” 

“Souls. Life-energy. It is that which you are sensing.” 

“Ah.” 

“Thus, your heightened emotional state.” 

“I’m _not_ in a heightened emotional state,” I say defensively, crossing my arms over my chest. 

“Y/N, you can’t ignore the truth so that you can avoid changing your sense of self-perception.” He is infuriatingly calm; a skyscraper in an August thunderstorm. 

“I’m not.” 

“Good,” he says. “Emotion does not mean weakness.” 

“I know.” 

“Good.” 

“So you can leave now.” 

He sighs and rises from the chair. “I want you to think about what I’ve said.” 

And he’s gone, and my world is upside-down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, ik. sry haha. but we got a moment where legolas and dear reader aren't actively trying to murder each other!!  
> aragorn is DEFINITELY Dad Friend. 100%. we stan.  
> anyway, in lieu of a Daily Dose of Culture, i've got a very important question for u all. i'm linking a google form, so just copy and paste the url: https://forms.gle/gqBN5WLPp5QJbbA57   
> PLEASE PLEASE PLEAAAASE take the time to answer it because it's really going to affect my work in the future and ur experience with this fic. if u don't have the time, pls just comment what hogwarts house ur in down below (because ravenclaw is the best house, obvi). ofc, a COMPLETELY rhetorical question, not using that info at all, (yeah, right). so yeah. i think thats it. see u next time, lovely ppl! :)


	18. two thousand years.

It’s too late for me to be awake. 

Lothlorien at night feels much the way a school playground at night does: you’re not supposed to be there. The buildings, the trees, they whisper about you. It is a changed landscape; not one for kids and certainly not one for you. 

I wander among the trees. At night, they are malignant. Reaching. I shy away from them. I’m lightheaded. It feels like I’m underwater, or more like I’m watching myself underwater. Like any second, I could stray into a dream. 

And then I do. 

It’s a picturesque scene. A raised platform of silver. A single beam of moonlight, like a spotlight, that glints off the keys of a mithril piano, polished to a mirrored shine. 

Carefully, reverently, I approach it. Observe my own puffy-eyed reflection in the music rack. Lift the silk cover off the keyboard. Lower myself, slowly, onto the bench. The pedals glisten in the soft light of the moon. 

The fall board reads _Yamaha_ in gold. The middle C is situated, like a nesting swan, just below the Y. 

B flat, clear and sparkling, rings out in a singing rain of crystal. 

G, and Chopin echoes through the quiet night. I haven’t played a nocturne in ages: it’s been flashy etudes at competitions, and then Winter Wind in Rivendell. I’ve been playing to impress. 

Here, I can stumble over the grace notes, put thought into the dynamics rather than the correctness. Here, no one is awake to listen to me. No facades, no faking. Me, a piano, and a wonderfully liminal space. 

“What song is that?” 

I shriek and hit a series of discordant notes, jumping off the bench and drawing my Swiss army knife. The figure behind me laughs and crosses his arms. “Relax. I did not intend to startle you.” The moonlight shines silver off his glossy blond hair. 

I glower, placing a hand over my heart to steady its racing. “Oh. It’s you.” 

“I merely asked you what song you were playing. I was actually enjoying it. Your glaring is uncalled-for,” he says, putting his palms up in an _ooh-I’m-so-pure_ gesture. 

“Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major,” I grumble, reluctantly. 

“It was quite pleasant,” he says, sitting beside me on the bench. His voice is sickly sweet: like poisoned honey, he’s inviting me to rise to his bait. To be the first one to snap. “By all means, continue. Don’t let me interrupt.” 

I’m not going to let him rattle me. I keep going from halfway through the eighth measure. My playing, now that Legolas is here, has become far more mechanical. I shift uncomfortably away from him. 

He deliberately moves closer and puts a hand on my arm. It’s warm through the sheer fabric of my dress. I try to shake it off as subtly as possible as I play, but I can’t. He’s smirking now. My jaw twitches. His demeanor is triumphant. I snatch my arm away, jerking my hands off the keys, and scowl at him. 

He pouts. “Pray tell, why did you stop?” he asks, with an air of faux innocence. 

“You know perfectly well,” I sneer. “Get your hands off me, elf.” 

“Oh, no,” teases Legolas. “Whatever am I to do? Oh, wait-- your magic is still healing. It appears as if I don’t have to do anything.” 

I stand up. “I don’t need my magic to slap a bitch.” 

“Legolas!” admonishes another blond elf, approaching us. Great. Haldir. His face registers disappointment in both of us. 

“Havo dad, Y/N,” says a second voice. I groan as Aragorn steps into the clearing. “Leave us, Legolas.” 

“As you wish,” says Legolas, with mock courtesy. He sticks his tongue out at me on his way out. 

“Why do you instigate fights with Legolas?” asks Aragorn, sitting a respectful distance away on the bench. Haldir props himself up on the side of the piano. 

“You know why,” I say. “He purposely harasses me. All the time.” 

“Yet you allow yourself to fall for it,” points out Haldir. “Legolas is not in the right, but neither are you, mellon nin.” 

I grumble. “You’re right.” 

“Don’t waste your energy on infighting,” chides Aragorn, gently. “You must heal. The fea magic which you wield is unstable. It will turn on you if you do not master it, Y/N.” 

“I know.” I’m miserable. I can’t go on like this, following the Fellowship and doing nothing but getting myself hurt and fighting with Legolas. “Maybe--” I break off. 

“Maybe what, Y/N?” Aragorn’s eyes search my face. 

“Maybe I should stay in Lothlorien,” I whisper. 

“No,” says Aragorn firmly. “Y/N--” 

“No, hear me out,” I interrupt. “It would be wise. I am dead weight on this quest.” 

“You’re not,” objects Haldir. “But a part of me is inclined to agree with you. You would be safest here.” 

“Perhaps,” says Aragorn. “But perhaps it is wiser for her to keep moving. Her power will only draw the eye of the Enemy. I think you know this, Haldir.” 

Haldir clearly disagrees. “Y/N is safest by her Ladyship.” 

“Haldir,” says Aragorn. “You cannot keep her here. You want to protect her; this I can respect. Any friend would feel the same. But do you doubt the ability of the Fellowship to protect her? _My_ ability to protect her? Not to mention Boromir of Gondor, who readily would die for her.” 

I don’t like that. Neither old me nor magic me likes that. “I would not let him.” 

“I know this,” says Aragorn. “But it is the truth.” 

Haldir sighs in resignation. “You are right, Aragorn. She must stay with the Fellowship.” 

“So I can be _protected?”_ I say incredulously. “I control the fea! I don’t need protection. And this quest has to succeed. You can’t drag me along, Aragorn.” 

“The worst may be behind us,” he says, trying to reason with me. “Until we reach Mordor.” 

“The worst is not behind us!” I retort. “I know it. And you know that I am correct, Aragorn.” 

He sighs. “Do what you think is best, Y/N.” He stands and leaves. 

“Y/N…” murmurs Haldir. I sigh. 

“I know, mellon nin.” 

\----- 

It is too late for me to be awake. 

Two thousand years, and I still cannot sleep. The longer I live, the worse it gets. I will not die. Cannot. Should not. No sickness, no old age. Very little fatigue. 

Still, elves need sleep. I will die of a broken heart before I get a good night’s sleep. There are no bags under my eyes to tell the tale of one exhausted prince. 

I consider myself introspective, with all the objectivity one can have when judging oneself. Two thousand years of walking Arda forces one to think before you speak, think before you act, consider your next move carefully. 

Never in two thousand years have I met someone who nullifies every boundary I have set up for myself. 

No. Not never. There is no such thing as never. 

I have to remind myself of this when the first fair notes ring through the forest. 

I used to think I could play the piano. For centuries, they have been here: one in Imladris, one in the Woodland Realm. And one in Lothlorien. Simple melodies, one-handed harmonies. A rare gift. The songs of our people. 

I used to think I could play the piano. But I can’t. There is only one person (has only ever been one person) in Arda who could. 

She, coincidentally, is the one who breaks my barriers. Who shatters my walls. She makes me laugh, she makes me angry beyond measure. She leaves me bereft of any sense of security. 

I hate it. 

No. 

I hate that I like it. 

I watch her. Each note is a tender kiss, a lover’s caress. She glows in the moonlight; her eyes are dewy. A breath of morning, pure and true, in the twilight. What is she remembering? Or anticipating? The trees are listening too. I don’t want to disturb her-- the trees are enjoying the music-- but it would be so much _fun._

It is a constant struggle with myself, and this is no exception: I know it is hardly appropriate for a two-thousand-year-old Prince of the Woodland Realm to approach a daughter of Man, to anger her on purpose with the intent of drawing a reaction out of her. Her anger makes me laugh. Joy is hard to come by when little is left of the Arda you once knew. It lingers in the trees, the grass, the flowers, the streams. 

She is concentrated joy. The lifespan of an Elf, burning short and lively, condensed into the lifespan of Man. 

I battle my sense of self-preservation for a few seconds. As usual, the unwise side wins. She’s rubbed off on me. They all have. Two Men, four Halflings, a Dwarf. And a girl. 

She doesn’t notice me walk up behind her. Silent footfalls. Elf footfalls. 

“What song is that?” 

I do not exaggerate when I say she screams. She leaps off of the piano bench, still screeching, and brandishes a laughably small dagger. I chuckle. “Relax,” I say. “I did not mean to startle you.” 

She glares at me. I have done nothing to her. “Oh. It’s you.” 

I smile. Her annoyance is amusing. “I merely asked what song you were playing. I was actually enjoying it,” I add. “Your glaring is uncalled-for.” 

A myriad of expressions cross her face: frustration, ire, realization, reluctance. And then her brow sets in determination. She’s going to try to avoid my badgering. It isn’t going to work. This I see in an instant, a blink of an eye. 

“Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major,” she says. 

The same person who composed the other song she played, back in Mirkwood. I told her one hundred years is a blink in the life of an elf. But it feels like an eternity ago. 

He must be from… wherever she is from. She knows things I am not meant to know. That much is clear. Is she from across the Sea? The East, as she said before? Who is he: a friend, a lover, a celebrity? A monarch? She is an enigma. 

“It was quite pleasant,” I say sincerely. I take a seat beside her on the bench. This only exacerbates her exasperation. “By all means, continue. Don’t let me interrupt.” 

She plays stormily for a few minutes. I sit in silence and listen. 

Once, she called me _mellon._ I don’t know if I liked it. We are opposites, she and I. But we both feel the same sorrow. 

I’m growing bored. To get a reaction out of her, I place a hand on her arm: over her dress, so that it sparks her annoyance and not discomfort. She tries to elbow my hand off. It doesn’t work. 

Finally, she wrenches her hands off the piano with a snarl. “Pray tell,” I say, thoroughly enjoying myself, “why did you stop?” 

“You know perfectly well,” she snaps. “Get your hands off me, _Elf.”_

As if “Elf” is an insult. “Oh, no,” I gasp. “Whatever am I to do? Oh, wait-- your magic is still healing. It appears as if I don’t have to do anything.” 

She surges to her feet. She looks halfway between an angry wolf and its cornered prey. Quite frankly, I find it hilarious. “I don’t need my magic to slap a bitch.” 

“Legolas!” 

I turn to find the Marchwarden frowning at me, and Aragorn close behind him. 

“Havo dad, Y/N,” says my friend, with his signature expression of disappointment. It is an expression which I have become well-acquainted with over the past few decades, but it never fails to make me feel guilt. This Ranger from the North, almost two thousand years my junior, has become more of a father to me than my own ever was. “Leave us, Legolas.” 

“As you wish.” As I leave, I stick my tongue out at Y/N: an out-of-character move for me, but entertaining nonetheless. 

Of course, I have no intention of actually leaving. This promises to be an intriguing conversation: the heir of Gondor, the captain of the Lorien guard, and Y/N, barely out of adolescence even for a daughter of Men. With all the practiced grace of centuries, I scale a mallorn tree about 30 feet from the clearing and situate myself comfortably in one of its limbs. 

“Why do you instigate fights with Legolas?” asks Aragorn. From this distance, I have to strain my ears slightly to hear. Y/N sighs. “You know why. He purposely harasses me all the time.” It is, admittedly, hard to argue with her assessment. 

“Yet you allow yourself to fall for it,” says Haldir. “Legolas is not in the right--” I bristle at this, though I know it in my heart to be true-- “but neither are you, mellon nin.” 

I have never known Haldir of Lothlorien to become emotionally attached to anything easily. Yet he, too, is ensnared by this ridiculously, impetuously human girl. Friendship. Between Haldir, and one of the Firiath. 

What is it that I feel for her? Love? No, because I do not begrudge Boromir their relationship. Lust? Elves do not feel lust, not unless they are already married. It is not romantic, then. Hate? That may be taking it too far. Dislike? Not quite. 

It dawns on me that I allow her to get under my skin, that I torment her so, because I want to befriend her. With this realization comes a wave of embarrassment. My behavior has been that of a petty Elfling. She deserves an apology. When did I become so out of touch with my own heart? 

Perhaps it is better if it remains this way. She is not good for me. I am, clearly, not good for her. We do not like each other; the odds are that we never will. Two thousand years have taught me this. 

“Don’t waste your energy on infighting,” says Aragorn. “You must heal. The fea magic which you wield is unstable. It will turn on you if you do not master it, Y/N.” 

“I know,” she says sadly. “Maybe--” She falters. 

I do not breathe. Dare not. I will not trust to my own strength, now. 

Y/N walks onwards, leaning on no one but herself. She is hurtling through memory and time. Through Shadow and flame. 

I will not share in this folly. 

“Maybe what, Y/N?” I can hear the dread in Aragorn’s tone. He knows what she is about to say. He does not like it. 

“Maybe I should stay in Lothlorien,” she whispers. 

“No,” says Aragorn. “Y/N-” 

She interrupts him with all the wilful stubbornness I have learned to hate, and to love. “No, hear me out. It would be wise. I am dead weight on this quest.” 

It would be wise. But she is not dead weight. How did she get the misconception that she is a burden? 

Is it my fault? 

She is so far from her heart, from her mind. She has powers over the soul, yet she does not know her own. 

_Look inside yourself, Y/N._

“You’re not,” says Haldir, voicing my mind. “But a part of me is inclined to agree with you. You would be safest here.” 

Haldir speaks the truth. My opinion, his opinion. Thousands of years of experience between us. Aragorn should listen. 

He does not. “Perhaps. But perhaps it is wiser for her to keep moving. Her power will only draw the eye of the Enemy. I think you know this, Haldir.” 

“Y/N is safest by her Ladyship.” Emotion, honey-thick, drips down Haldir’s voice. For an elf, I am emotional. Haldir? Not at all. 

Y/N doesn’t see it. She doesn’t know it. 

“Haldir. You cannot keep her here. You want to protect her; this I can respect. Any friend would feel the same. But do you doubt the ability of the Fellowship to protect her? _My_ ability to protect her? Not to mention Boromir of Gondor, who readily would die for her.” 

I frown. Y/N needs no protection. She is a formidable enemy on her own-- this I learned the hard way in Rivendell. 

“I would not let him,” says Y/N, headstrong as always. 

“I know this. But it is the truth,” says Aragorn calmly. 

“You are right, Aragorn,” says Haldir, sighing. “She must stay with the Fellowship.” 

I am not convinced of this. For one, her power only draws the Enemy’s eye to Frodo. Not to mention that although altruistic, she is still of the race of Men. She will try to take the Ring. She and it must be separated. It is not her fault. Men are lesser beings than Elves; this is inherent. 

“So I can be protected?!” shrills Y/N, petulantly. “I control the fea! I don’t need protection. And this quest has to succeed. You can’t drag me along, Aragorn.” 

“The worst may be behind us,” says Aragorn. Then, quieter, “Until we reach Mordor.” 

“The worst is not behind us.” There is a note of finality in her voice. “I know it. And you know that I am correct, Aragorn.” 

What is the meaning of that? Does she have the gift of foresight? How does she see the road ahead of us? 

Aragorn knows as well. Why does he not tell me? 

Aragorn, Gandalf, Lord Elrond, the Lady Galadriel, Y/N. All of them know something that I do not. 

“Do what you think is best, Y/N,” says Aragorn. The sounds of his footfalls echo through the treetops, and it is time for me to leave. 

With none of my questions answered. Because they will not tell me. 

Two thousand years. Immortality, a kingdom of Elves. 

And all I want is to be trusted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> fea- soul (ik, there's supposed to be a diaeresis, it's just so frickin annoying to type lol)  
> mellon nin- my friend  
> \-----  
> hello folks, i'm back! some things i wanted to address:  
> THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU for the CRAZY number of responses to my google form. i got some really helpful suggestions which i will definitely be using. tons of u ppl are ravenclaws. glad to see ur ppl of culture too :)  
> ppl have been asking me for more boromir. k, let's get this straight: this is a leggy fic. we're doing the blondes. pointy-eared bitches only. yeah, we have some subplot action, but. subplot. is kind of??? part of any story????? also, ppl have been asking me to do thorin. u guys, i am going to be honest, i think i'm going to have to take a very long and refreshing break from doing reader inserts. this stuff is frickin difficult and frankly uncomfortable to write, tbh.  
> go listen to nocturne in e flat maj. i can actually play it. (gj, me.)  
> see u ppl next time! lots of love!


	19. farewell to lorien.

i | legolas. 

“You were eavesdropping last night.” 

It isn’t an accusation in the way she says it. It is flat, emotionless. She is blocking herself off. 

It makes my blood boil. 

“I was,” I say, matching her tone. She has shown up out of the blue. Sneaking. Like an elf. 

Is it wrong of me to see myself in the way she moves? 

“Why?” is all she says. One word. A simple question. An interrogation. Bland. 

_Because I want to know more about you. Because you are a mystery to me. Because you make trust disappear._

I counter her question with one of my own. “Why do you wish to leave the Fellowship?” 

“You heard the reason why,” she says. 

“You think you are a burden.” 

A trickle of emotion, a single tear, bleeds into her voice. “And I’m right, too.” She smirks bitterly. “I’m always right.” 

“So you would abandon us.” 

She snorts derisively. “Abandon? I’m unencumbering you.” 

“That isn’t a word.” 

“You know what?” She’s let her facade fall completely; her eyes are wild and angry. “I think you should just go. Leave me alone for once.” Something in her voice is broken; _she is broken,_ I realize. 

Guilt, a tidal wave, crashes over me. I have not allowed myself to _feel_ like this since-- 

Since-- 

“Y/N--” 

“NO!” The way she looks at me, or maybe the way I see her, is a window: she is damaged. Finally, I see the full scope of it. “Leave. Go. You showed up last night, _touched me without my permission--_ ” 

\--I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry--_

I try to move in, to let her know that I am sorry. That I will change. For her. 

_Two thousand years. Change does not come easily. I will make it come for you._

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” She hurls the nearest thing-- a delicate elf-wrought vase-- at my head. I duck; it whistles over my head and shatters on the wall. Shards of broken glass rain down. 

Her voice is shaky. Red-eyed, she is trying to calm herself. “Go. You make everything worse.” 

And for once, I agree with her. 

\----- 

ii | y/n. 

“Lady Galadriel.” 

She nods at me. “You destroyed an urn from the First Age,” she remarks dryly. 

“My apologies.” 

“No need. Young Thranduilion was out of line.” 

“Still,” I say. “The crime did not warrant the actions. I’m so..” 

“Finish your statement.” 

“Destructive,” I conclude, leaning back. “That’s it. Everything I touch breaks.” 

“You have decided this of yourself, and upon this basis plan to stay here?” 

“Yes.” 

“That would be unwise.” 

“Wouldn’t I be safest by you?” I say, looking at her. She gives me that Mona Lisa smile again. 

“Perhaps. Let us see.” 

It’s a silver pitcher; maybe it was also made in ancient times. I get the feeling that it probably was. The water in it is cold and clear. I peer down into the basin. 

“Uhh…” I don’t know how to break it to her. “I don’t really see anything.” 

“Patience, Y/N.” 

I furrow my brow at it. “Come on.” 

And then, like magic, 

_y/n? it’s my mother’s voice. y/n?_

_i choke. where are you, mama? where has family gone? comfort? love?_

_she will not listen; she will not listen. a blond head. blue eyes. he’s dead, like the rest of them._

_the twang of a bow, the thwack of an arrow piercing skin._

_he falls. i scream._

_who now has the power to stand against us?_

_power, ascent. fire. i am light. he is dark. day, night. mine. mine._

_so you see._

_yes._

_you will do it, then?_

_i pause._

_who are you?_

_i think you know, y/n. i think you know very well. you have seen me before._

_i have?_

_my eye is upon you now. you have done well._

_your eye?_

_my love._

_your eye?_

_my queen._

_his eye?_

His eye? 

His eye. 

No. 

YOU WILL NOT HARM THEM! is it a scream from me? from him? from her? 

“STAY BACK, THRALL OF MORGOTH.” My voice. The water is frozen, shooting, spraying, a carpet of broken glass. A shattered vase. 

Forcewaves. The ground shakes. It comes from me. 

Galadriel stands stock-still, frozen. Staring. “You controlled the water. Of the Mirror.” 

The trees scream. 

Ice, flooding. Power, raw, stormclouds churning ahead. A part of me is still in the mirror. I wrench it out. 

Wildly, I turn to her. “He is here.” 

\----- 

iii | legolas. 

“SOUND THE ALARM!” She is racing, rushing. A river. Breathlessly, “Legolas. Get the halflings. His Eye is upon us.” 

She’s gone. 

That’s the first time she’s called me by my name. 

Right. The Hobbits. I charge into the forest. “Frodo? Frodo! Samwise!” 

Her voice is everywhere. Ingrained into my frontal lobe, carved into my eardrums. “Go, go, go! There is no time! Haldir, thank Eru,” and I feel jealousy. No thanking of the Valar when she sees me. 

Not important. Not important at all. 

“Not often do we clothe outsiders in the garments of our people,” says Haldir when we are all gathered at the boats. His words come out in one rush. Rushing, rushing. Two thousand years, and suddenly, I have no time. 

“Great. Thanks. Let’s go.” Y/N is anxious, fidgety, everywhere. Her frayed nerves are getting on mine. 

“For the love of Valinor, Y/N,” I urge, “av-’osto. Calm down.” 

“Avon,” she says. “I brought this upon us.” 

_Y/N? The Enemy?_

“Man agoreg?” 

“I looked in the Mirror-- here’s your bow, Blondie--” She hands me a bow; I run my fingers up and down its surface. This is not my bow. It is beautiful. Ancient. 

“Jesus Christ, Blondie, it’s just a bow. From Galadriel. Anyway, he found me. Through the mirror. He showed me--” She breaks off. Her shoulders shake. 

“Why do you weep? It is no fault of yours.” 

“It will be,” is her cryptic answer. 

Gimli gets three strands of her hair. Samwise gets a box of seeds; mallorn seeds. 

Y/N gets advice. 

“You must be there. You must find the key. And you must destroy it before you go.” 

She nods. 

Secrets. Rushing. Two thousand years. Things I don’t know. 

\----- 

iv | y/n. 

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit. I can’t do this. 

“Lembas bread? Who has the-- Jesus fucking Christ, Meriadoc Brandybuck, _stop stuffing your face and haul ass._ ” I can’t help but curse; I’m panicking. 

The Mirror. Ice. Shattered glass. A vase. 

His Eye. Watching. 

He will be here soon. 

“Come on, come on-- Aragorn, let’s go!” I can’t breathe, I can’t think. This is my fault. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

“Boromir, get in a boat. No, stop arguing,” I take the first breath in a hot minute, month, year, eon. Seconds ticking by. No time, no time. 

“SOUND THE ALARM!” They say a watched clock ticks slower. Too fast. Still too fast for me. Time is a bitch; she won’t slow for me and my problems. 

Time, ticking, seconds left. A key. Mount Doom. 

Home. 

I almost crash into a blond head. “Legolas-- oh, Legolas, get the halflings. His Eye is upon us.” 

He barely responds, standing, stammering, slow. Too slow. Movement. We need to move out. “Go, go, go! There’s no time! Oh-- Haldir. Thank Eru!” 

He places a hand on my shoulder, and my racing screeches to a reluctant halt. 

“Slow down, mellon nin.” 

“He is here, Haldir--” 

“--I know. I will protect this realm. You must get your friends out.” 

“What the hell do you think I’m doing? Wait, what the hell do you think _you’re_ doing? You’re going to protect Lorien by yourself?” 

“Well--” 

“No, hold on.” I press a glowing hand into his chest: it flares and then diminishes. “There. You’ll be safe, for today at least.” 

“And how do you--” 

“I don’t know how I know, okay?” Shut up. No time. Need to go. Key, Mount Doom, key. The way home. The way back. Find it, and I’m safe. According to Galadriel. “Listen, I have to--” 

“You have to make a decision.” 

I freeze. 

“The clock is ticking, Y/N.” 

I’m not ready for this. In no way am I ready for this. 

I don’t need to be ready, I realize. I need to be smart. There will not be another chance. 

A key, a volcano. Death no matter what I do. 

“I’ll go with the Fellowship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY  
> Thranduilion- son of Thranduil  
> Av-'osto- do not fear  
> Man agoreg?- What did you do?  
> Mellon nin- my friend (as you probably know)  
> \-----  
> hello lovelies! sorry for the late update and sorry for a short chapter! this is a bit more abstract, so see what details you can glean until next time. i'll explain, i swear. anyway, i got a ton of support on my last chapter which meant SO MUCH to me, like you actually have no idea.  
> anywho, for today's Daily Dose of Culture, i highly recommend the movie dead poets society. i will never stop singing the praises of that movie. never ever. we stan. also, o me, o life is in it, and we live for walt whitman.  
> okay, that's it for today. go watch the nba and CHEER FOR THE LAKERS (i'm doing so as i type, and mother mary and jesus christ, they haven't made a single shot for like, this whole 3rd quarter. smh). wash ur hands. read a real book. love u all and see u next time! toodles!


	20. {pt. i; the sky's imperial grace}

“I promise.” 

For once, I feel comfortable making a promise. 

_Do you know what I liked most about Lorien?_ Boromir had asked me. _The stars. They were so clear and beautiful. My mother once told me that the stars are lovers’ unbroken promises._

_Do you want a star?_ I’d asked. And we’d promised each other. No dying. No getting hurt. We were going to make it out of this war alive. 

“Boromir?” 

“Yes, love?” 

“When this war ends, and when we survive--” 

“Like we promised, yes--” 

“--I want you in my life.” 

“As do I.” 

And the funny thing is, I believe it could happen. 

\----- 

Legolas looks wistful. 

“Jesus, Blondie,” I say, once we’re well on our way, drifting down the river in the grey boats of Lorien. For the first ten minutes, I kept looking back to see if I could spot Haldir. Just to make sure he was fine. “Who died?” 

“No one.” 

“Why do you look so sad then?” I ask, and Boromir laughs, slinging an arm around my shoulder. I scoot into him and grin back. “God, you’re handsome, Boro.” 

“Nothing compared to you,” he says, twirling a strand of my hair with a nimble finger. I feel good. I feel great. Haldir is protected. 

That means I can protect Boromir too. 

“Hey.” I look over at Legolas. He’s trailing one long-fingered hand in the water, staring at nothing. “Knife-ears. You good?” 

“Yes. It is simply that I thought my first trip in a boat of Cirdan would be towards peace.” 

I stare at the boat with newfound respect. “This is a boat of Cirdan?” 

“Yes. You did not notice? Oh wait, I forgot. Other races have inferior eyesight.” He chuckles, but it’s halfhearted. He doesn’t even have it in him to annoy me. 

I feel a faint twinge, and suddenly recognize it as sympathy. 

For the elf. 

Huh. 

Aragorn’s aura, from behind me, shifts. I look over at him. He’s waiting, watching me expectantly. 

“You changed your emotions,” I say. 

“Yes.” 

“To get my attention.” 

“Indeed.” 

“Wow,” I say. “I can’t even be mad. I have to hand it to you, Elessar. That’s pretty smart.” 

“Thank you.” Then he mouths, _Talk to him._

I frown, trying to make out his words. He looks pointedly at Legolas, then at me, then back to Legolas. 

I shake my head. 

Emphatically, he nods his. I frown. He raises his eyebrows back at me. It’s a signature Aragorn look of disappointment. 

And goddammit, it works. 

I move away from Boromir. “Legolas? Legolas.” 

He stares at me with blue eyes. With a start, it dawns on me that it is his blue eyes, his blond hair that I saw caked in blood in my vision. 

_dead. just like the rest of them._

“Y/N?” He is staring at me. “Did you call me for a reason?” 

“No, I,” I kick myself for being so awkward, “I just thought you seemed… down.” I probe out for his aura. “You _are_ down.” 

“And you’re not?” 

“I told you, I can’t read my own aura--” 

“You don’t need to. Look inside yourself.” 

I snort. “Since when am I taking advice from you, Blondie?” Still, I do. 

I _am_ down. Beneath my cocky exterior, my cool facade. The sass, the logic, the ambition. I’m down. 

“You know,” says Legolas, “I prefer it when you call me by my given name.” 

“You want me to take your advice _and_ take you preferences into consideration? That’s pushing it, princeling.” 

He snickers. “Generally, people call me _Ernilen_ and bow.” 

“Oh great prince,” I say, curtseying as best I can while sitting in a rowboat, “what is your wisdom? How do I become un-down?” 

He shrugs. “I thought you were not taking advice from me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I see,” he says. “So how long do you think we’ll talk this time without fighting?” 

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “We fight. It’s what we do. Hey, want to hear a poem?” 

“Yes, but if I dislike it, then you do not get to fight me today.” 

“No.” 

“Alright, then if I dislike it, you do not get to fight me unless I purposely aggravate you.” 

“Aha! So you admit to pushing my buttons.” 

“Pushing your buttons? What does that… Ah, no matter. The poem, please, m’lady.” He props his feet up on the bow of the ship. 

_Far, far away one mystery greets_

_Another vast and high,_

_The infinite of waters meets_

_The infinite of sky._

_The stars are singing hymns of calm_

_Above the sea's unrest;_

_Can ever that majestic psalm_

_Dwell in the ocean's breast?_

_What far horizon dim and low_

_The sweet solution finds,_

_Where earth's tumultuous yearnings know_

_The peace of heavenly minds?_

_And still the sky's imperial grace_

_The tossing ocean mars;_

_We cannot see the meeting place,_

_But we can see the stars._

Looking up, I realize that everyone is staring at me. “Uhhh… can I help you?” 

“Congratulations, Y/N,” says Legolas sarcastically. “It appears that we can fight today.” 

“So you liked it.” 

“Indeed.” 

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. 

\----- 

“I take it back,” says Legolas, after the third time I’ve stolen his new bow. “I didn’t like it. In fact, I think I can do better.” 

Boromir laughs heartily. “You? Recite better poetry than Y/N’s? Only in your wildest dreams, Master Elf.” 

“Beyond merely doing better,” says Legolas, giving me a nasty side-eye, “I think I’ll sing it.” 

“Please, don’t,” I say, but he’s already going at it: 

_An Elven-maid there was of old,_

_A shining star by day:_

_Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,_

_Her shoes of silver-grey._

_A star was bound upon her brows,_

_A light was on her hair_

_As sun upon the golden boughs_

_In Lórien the fair._

_Her hair was long, her limbs were white,_

_And fair she was and free;_

_And in the wind she went as light_

_As leaf of linden-tree._

_Beside the falls of Nimrodel,_

_By water clear and cool,_

_Her voice as falling silver fell_

_Into the shining pool._

_Where now she wanders none can tell,_

_In sunlight or in shade;_

_For lost of yore was Nimrodel_

_And in the mountains strayed._

“Please,” I say, “stop.” 

“Why?” says Aragorn. “He has a fair voice.” 

“I’d rather listen to Gimli.” 

Boromir arches an eyebrow. “Be careful of what you wish for.” 

Legolas glares at me. “These are the songs of my people, foolish mortal.” Then he continues, in a mellow, cool voice: 

_The elven-ship in haven grey_

_Beneath the mountain-lee_

_Awaited her for many a day_

_Beside the roaring sea._

_A wind by night in Northern lands_

_Arose, and loud it cried,_

_And drove the ship from elven-strands_

_Across the streaming tide._

_When dawn came dim the land was lost,_

_The mountains sinking grey_

_Beyond the heaving waves that tossed_

_Their plumes of blinding spray._

_Amroth beheld the fading shore_

_Now low beyond the swell,_

_And cursed the faithless ship that bore_

_Him far from Nimrodel._

_Of old he was an Elven-king,_

_A lord of tree and glen,_

_When golden were the boughs in spring_

_In fair Lothlórien._

_From helm to sea they saw him leap,_

_As arrow from the string,_

_And dive into the water deep,_

_As mew upon the wing._

_The wind was in his flowing hair,_

_The foam about him shone;_

_Afar they saw him strong and fair_

_Go riding like a swan._

_But from the West has come no word,_

_And on the Hither Shore_

_No tidings Elven-folk have heard_

_Of Amroth evermore._

“Jesus,” I say. “So he drowned?” 

“Or so we have assumed for many Ages of the Earth.” 

“Well,” I mutter. “Serves him right for jumping off a ship for love.” 

“Would you not do the same?” asks Aragorn. “Would you not give your life for love?” 

I look at Boromir. Consider him, for a long while. 

“I suppose,” I say, carefully, “that I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> Cirdan-- one of the oldest elves, often called "the shipwright" (yes, i know, there's an accent over the i. like i said, they're hard to type lol)  
> Ernilen-- my prince  
> \-----  
> hello again! today we have a very interesting promise! and some positive interaction! so that's good. also, the poem is the stars above the sea by amos russel wells, a very underrated poem and one that i think was very appropriate for this chapter (stars? sea? i have a poem for everything, friends).  
> in other news, i've planned a short story for after this fic is done-- it'll probably have 4 chapters, but i might include another work with bonus scenes and other fun stuff. i have a solid plot in mind but i don't know what characters/fandom i want to do. leave suggestions in the comments-- whatever fandom it is, i've probably read/watched it. harry potter, pjo, the hunger games, atla, lotr, the hobbit, the mcu, freaking star wars, obscure-ass movies, mediocre netflix shows, even fuckin' twilight. (i've seen too much.) AND i'm willing to read new books and watch new shows if u guys want to see something i haven't gotten into yet. so leave ur entries below, bros. see you lovely readers soon! mwahh :)


	21. {pt. ii: the tossing ocean mars}

“The Argonath.” 

I look up. They are remnants of a forgotten world; a time when high fantasy was higher. They are out of place in this world. 

As am I. 

Aragorn speaks again, almost to himself, moved by the beauty of these silent sentinels. “Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old. My kin.” 

There is no family left for me here. Hours on a river have brought a dark mood, settled it like a blanket over my mind. There is only my found family, those I must protect until I can leave. 

A key, Mount Doom. 

_“There is a key hidden deep within Mount Doom. You will know it when you find it. It is your path back home. Find it, and you may save yourself yet.”_

Boromir, Haldir, Aragorn. Lindir. Elrond, Arwen. 

_“I would have followed you. My brother. My captain. My king.”_

No. I will not let it happen. 

My power is my own. Mine to command. I will get it under control, I will make it work. 

Just for today. 

\----- 

We dock on the shores of Nen Hithoel. 

“We cross the lake at nightfall, hide the boats, and continue on foot,” says Aragorn. “Then we approach Mordor from the North.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” says Gimli sarcastically. “Just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil, an impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks. And after that, it gets even better. A festering, stinking marshland as far as the eye can see.” 

Aragorn nods. “That is our road. I suggest you take some rest and recover your strength while you still can, Master Dwarf.” 

Gimli splutters. “Recover my--” 

“We should leave now.” Legolas’s voice is quiet, but urgent. Immediately, Aragorn, Boromir, and I turn to him. 

“No,” I say. “Look.” I glance to the East. 

“Orcs patrol the Eastern shore,” adds Aragorn. “We must wait for cover of darkness.” 

“It is not the Eastern shore that worries me.” Legolas shifts an uneasy blue gaze into the vernal deep of the Parth Gaelen forest. “A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind.” 

“It is an aura,” I say. “A strong one. Something draws near. You can feel it too.” 

He nods. 

I fight to avoid Boromir’s eye contact. 

\----- 

It has begun. 

Sam is slumped on the ground, asleep. Merry has returned with kindling. “Where’s Frodo?” 

My heart skips a beat. 

Sam sits bolt upright. Aragorn’s eyes snap around. 

I watch everything as if it’s underwater. 

_I would have followed you._

I let him go. 

_The stars are lovers’ unbroken promises._

No stars for us. 

My eyes fly to where Boromir’s shield lays abandoned on the ground. 

Aragorn notices. 

“Get up.” 

I sit, frozen. 

“Everyone, get up.” 

A panic. Aragorn is shouting, trying to organize, I think, but my thoughts are anything but. There go Merry and Pippin, and in a dreamlike trance I watch them. I can only sit and stare. Frozen. 

He’s speaking, but I don’t understand. Aragorn hauls me up, and I think, _Boromir,_ and then people are yelling. Aragorn is running, dragging me behind him by the hand, and-- 

_Crack!_

I jerk my head up, shocked. Legolas is standing over me with an apologetic look on his face. My hand goes to the place on my cheek where the skin is still stinging. 

“My apologies,” he says, not sounding at all sincere. “But we need to make haste.” 

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you, princeling?” 

“Now that’s more like it.” 

And we take off. 

“Let’s split up.” 

“What?” I stare at Aragorn. “That’s a terrible idea. We’re going to be killed.” 

Legolas sniggers. “By what?” 

I glare. If only he knew. 

“I’ll go this way,” says Aragorn. “You three look for the Halflings.” 

“Can I look for Boro--” 

I almost miss the dirty looks Legolas and Aragorn give me. 

Almost. 

\----- 

“Can we search for Boromir now?” I grumble. 

“No.” 

“Maybe the Halflings are with him?” 

“I highly doubt it.” 

“Maybe--” 

“Y/N!” Legolas turns and shakes me. “You have been doing this for fifteen consecutive minutes now. I am sure that Boromir is fine. And if he is not, it is likely nothing that you cannot fix.” 

“Right,” I say, more to assure myself than Gimli or the elf. “I can fix it.” 

“Go, Frodo!” 

We all freeze. Gimli’s head snaps up. Legolas’s ears twitch. 

It’s Aragorn’s voice. 

“Run.” 

A distant thundering. 

“Run!” 

I don’t need Gimli to speak for me to know what they are, but he says it anyway. 

“Orcs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS i'm so sorry for being so inactive lately. i really need to step it up don't i lol. i've been focusing a lot lately on my art (@audsdrawn on ig, shameless self promo lmao) but i will continue to write, i promise. this was meant to be a longer chapter but of course i'm trying to drag out this major plot point as far as possible to capitalize on the emotional value like the fuckwad i am lmao. ALSO! i got a tumblr. i'm @freshaudvocado. not really sure how this whole thing works yet, but. maybe?? i'll post writing on tumblr?? (if u guys want to read my poetry, that would probably be the place?) lmk if u would like to see some of my writing on tumblr and if that's more/less convenient for y'all.  
> daily dose of culture: physics for poets by robert h. march. i'm going into freshman year, so this is great reading. TECHNICALLY it's a college physics tb but i love it i love i love it, and the writing style is oddly similar to that of jirt himself (lmk in the comments whether u guys see that too or not). i think that's it. see u lovely ppl soon! xo


	22. a starless night.

“This is a nightmare.” 

We’re sprinting through the trees, Legolas with minimal effort, the other two of us left to pant and heft our weapons in his wake. I fight with double swords now: short, elegant scimitars suited for melee combat, a gift from Haldir. 

Dual-wielded Elven swords. A little piece of history for Blondie, I guess. 

A sudden thunder, and an echo. A thousand years of history, white walls and high cliffs. The blowing of a horn. 

Legolas turns. “The horn of Gondor!” 

I suck in a breath. “Boromir!” 

\----- 

It’s hopeless. 

I’m desperately slashing my way towards Boromir, whirling, weeping. I can’t see who or what it is I’m stabbing through the tears. 

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

_Remember what it is you’re fighting for._

_A star. An unbroken lovers’ promise._

“Boromir!” 

“Y/N!” I watch as Uruk-Hai jump on him, fall to his sword. He can’t hold them off much longer. 

“Boromir--” In a Hail-Mary bid, I shoulder my way through the carnage towards him. 

His lips move. 

“Boromir, love, I can’t hear you--” 

“--RUN!” 

“NO!” 

_I would have followed you._

Some Uruk-Hai, a monster from the abyss, nocks an arrow. 

I take a breath. 

_My brother._

I know what I have to do. 

For the stars, and for us. An unbroken promise. 

The string draws back. 

_My captain._

No. No. Don’t be stupid, stupid. I have to get home. 

Home? 

Home is here, isn’t it? Home is here. With Boromir. 

I’m coming home. 

_My king._

The arrow flies. 

It’s too late. 

make a decision. 

i spring towards Boromir, the only one i see. my star. a gift, and here is home. 

it catches me in the chest. 

razor sharp. i smile, and it’s arrowheads. the point slices easily through my flesh and lodges, somewhere, between my soul and my mind. 

my rib. 

it should be numb, shouldn’t it? the adrenaline, the rush. but it’s not. it’s bleeding like you wouldn’t believe. 

blood on my hands, and-- 

I turn my head, wincing at the dizzyingly intense pain it brings. 

Another arrow. 

No. 

How could I forget? 

How could I be so-- 

_stupid._

_don’t be stupid, stupid,_ and it hits him. He’s still fighting. 

“BOROMIR!” and my voice is distant, far away. 

i’m underwater. 

“BORO--” i’m being hauled up, and i’m bleeding out. a gentle voice says, don’t take the arrow out, it’ll only make it worse, and i want to wrench it out of my rib. put it through my head. 

the second arrow hits him in the leg and he crumples. 

I leap towards him and land, excruciatingly, on my side. “Boromir. Boromir-- no. No, no, no. Look at me. Please, please, look at me, look at me--” 

“I’m here.” His voice is unnaturally calm. 

“Good.” Good. I can’t afford to panic. Calm yourself. No more mistakes. Don’t be stupid, stupid, calm down. “I’m going to heal you.” I would never be able to do this, ever, but I tear a shred from my cloak and tie it around his leg. “This is a tourniquet. I’m just--” I swallow-- “I’m just going to take out the arrow now.” 

“Leave it, Y/N.” 

“What? No.” I go to work on his leg. It’s bleeding profusely, a fountain of red silk. The arrow comes out relatively easily, and I start knitting his flesh back together. 

“Y/N.” 

“Be quiet, Boromir--” 

“--Y/N, stop it!” 

_“NO!”_ I roar, and it surprises even me. “I’m working, okay? I’m--” I falter. 

The aura goes dead. 

“It’s not working.” 

No. No, no, no. This is my gift. I’ve been practicing. 

This should work. 

This needs to work. 

“It’s not working-- Aragorn,” and I start sobbing, and I don’t care-- “Aragorn, why isn’t it working?” 

“You don’t create life energy, Y/N. You work with what’s already there.” 

“NO!” I scream, loud enough to wake the dead. Except it can’t. 

I tap into my fea, but there’s none left. 

“You will fade if you don’t stop now, Y/N,” warns Aragorn, but I’m not listening. I’m still trying, desperately, but I can’t see, I’m crying and my hands won’t stop shaking, and help me help me help me. 

Boromir looks up at Aragorn. 

“I would have followed you.” 

No. No. This can’t be happening. 

“My brother.” 

I wrench out a half-sob, half-choke, and feel deeper for energy. None. One tiny shred, but it’s fading quickly. 

I will die with him. 

“My captain.” 

I will die with him. 

And, oddly, that’s a comforting thought. 

Home. 

“My king.” 

_I’m going home,_ I think. 

and then I think nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end!
> 
> no i'm just kidding lmao. i'm going to keep this brief. hope you enjoyed the chapter, in the worst way possible (bwah ha ha ha). see you guys soon. or not. >:)


	23. rhapsody in opposites.

_i. to heal, and to hurt._

“Look at her. She’s still asleep.” 

I shift, and my rib cries out in protest. There is grass against my cheek, and gravel. Where am I? 

A second voice. _“Shhh!_ ” 

“I AM quiet!” 

“Silence, both of you!” 

Both voices fall silent. 

The third voice again. “I’m listening.” A pause. Then, softly, “Their pace has quickened.” 

The crunch of gravel. He’s standing up. “They must have caught our scent. Hurry!” He runs off. 

Someone picks me up gingerly. I almost pass out from the pain. And then he(? she? they?) starts running, and I do pass out. 

\----- 

_ii. to love, and to lose._

“Stop talking about her.” 

“Why?” I turn to Aragorn, who is perched owlishly on a rock nearby. 

We observe the unconscious girl in question. Her hair, grown out since her arrival, is splayed out on the ground where I laid her down. “She is awakening,” says Aragorn, jumping off the rock and landing soundlessly. 

“Look at her,” says Gimli, waving a dismissive hand. “She’s still asleep.” 

For a full week? This is what it is to love, and to lose. 

A certain flame-haired elf, a million years ago, cried like her. 

How much can one weep before your tears run dry? 

She shifts, and mewls prettily. Everything she does is distinctly _pretty._ At least for a daughter of Man, I suppose. Her rib must still pain her. So irritatingly fragile. A plucked moonlily, once-glowing. 

_“Shhh,”_ I tell the dwarf. He frowns. 

“I AM quiet!” 

“Silence!” Aragorn breaks in, with an ear pressed to the soft earth, and then, quieter, “Both of you! I’m listening.” 

We wait. 

“Their pace has quickened.” He stands. “They must have caught our scent. Hurry!” 

I scoop Y/N up. My hair falls in her face. Her head lolls back, and she moans faintly. She _is_ awake. 

“Y/N,” I hiss. But she’s fallen unconscious again. I set off northwards after the others. 

\----- 

_iii. to laugh, and to cry._

The next time I blink awake, the craggy rocks and stones have faded into the distance. 

We are thundering across a vast land of plains-- _Rohan,_ I think, briefly-- and Gimli, as always, is complaining. 

“I am wasted on cross-country.” He stops, and pants before continuing. “We dwarves are natural sprinters. Very dangerous over short distances.” 

I want to laugh. But the memory of my beloved, gone, faded into the next land, is still freshly burned into my eyelids. 

I cannot laugh. This is a time for tears. 

A part of me clings on to the hope that they revived Boromir while I was out. That it was a mistake-- that someone else was shot, and I’m just not remembering it right. 

It’s wrong, I know. But the hope is still there nonetheless. 

What kind of Eru gifts me with remarkable power, and then takes away my last love? 

I never want to see the stars again. 

The breathing of whoever’s carrying me is remarkably steady for someone who’s running up a hill. As we come over the top, the Hunters pause on the crest. My carrier’s chest heaves, and then is still. 

“Rohan,” says a distant voice, with a latent authoritarian note that I have come to know and love. So it is Gimli, and Aragorn leading, and Blondie carting me around. “Home of the Horse-lords. There’s something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures. Sets its will against us.” 

Movement. Legolas runs out further onto the jutting-out of the hilltop. 

“Legolas!” 

I suck in a sharp breath. As stupid as it sounds, I want to allow myself to laugh. Just this once. 

“What do your elf-eyes see?” 

I swallow a snicker. 

“The Uruks turn northeast.” 

I wait. 

“They’re taking the Hobbits to Isengard!” 

With that, I sit up straight, erupting in giggles. I can’t help it. I’m laughing, and then, in the blink of an eye, I’m crying. Boromir is gone, and the pain in my rib is blinding. 

“Oh, my God,” I gasp, wincing and sobbing a little from my wound. “How long have I been out?” 

Legolas sets me down carefully. The bump of my butt hitting the ground still hurts, and I whimper. 

“Shh,” says Aragorn, crouching next to me and placing a hand on my forehead. “You have been incapacitated for just over a week.” 

“A _week?!”_ I screech. 

“Yes, a week-- do try to calm yourself-- and you were shot by a Black Arrow. We hope to find rest and medicine for you.” 

“Where? Edoras?” 

“That remains to be seen.” 

Legolas interrupts the conversation. “Can you run, Y/N?” 

I smirk. “Still annoying as ever, Blondie. What, you’re not strong enough to carry me?” 

“Maybe you’re too heavy.” 

“Sheltered-ass princeling.” 

“Incorrigible, insolent--” 

“Stop that, the two of you!” says Aragorn. “She just woke up. She can barely sit up. Here. Drink.” He hands me a leather canteen; the cold water all but burns my parched throat. Still, I gulp down the entire contents of the flask. 

“Good girl,” says Aragorn. “Legolas, carry her. We must continue.” 

He lifts me up again, bridal-style. He’s surprisingly warm, despite his irritating cold Elvish personality. Bitch. 

The jolts of his footfalls send spikes of pain through my side. It hurts to breathe. 

I try to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops short chapter lol. welcome back! she's awake!  
> ok so now we're getting to the fun part where we get to watch dear reader and legolas beat their feelings back with a broom. fun times. i think i'll try to come up with a regular update schedule, but just know that as the school year starts, this might slow down. (ofc, not too much, because coronavirus lol.) guys i'm planning out the plot points for my next project: it's going to be a series! there's going to be the main story in four parts, then twelve short one-shots to go with it. that'll be my cooldown. anyway idk if i want it to be a reader insert? or another ship? leave requests in the comments below. luv y'all, and see u guys soon!


	24. whatever it takes

“A red sun rises.” 

The rumble Legolas’s voice generates in his chest wakes me up. I blink, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and glare at him. He ignores me pointedly. “Blood has been spilled this night.” 

Then he falls silent. 

I close my eyes and, as we set off again, try to imagine that it’s Boromir and not my mortal enemy carrying me. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough cognitive energy today. And Legolas runs differently. 

I have some time to think. 

There is nothing left for me here anymore. That much is clear. Home was love, and love is gone. 

That’s fine. I can settle for second-best. 

(It’s not fine.) 

I need to get back to my world. Mount Doom, the key. I can open a doorway. 

_but,_ says a voice that twinges somewhere at the base of my skull, _what about your friends?_

Not important, I tell it. 

_if you’re opening a doorway, think of everything you’ll be letting through to your world._

I can strike a deal. Besides, if I’m the one to open the doorway, I can probably close it too. 

The voice falls silent. 

A distant thunder: a storm? For some reason, my brain goes straight to _avalanche,_ even though the place where the sound is coming from is an empty plain. I shake my head to rid myself of the confusion. I seem to be stuck in that place halfway between sleep and wakefulness, where common logic is suspended and dream-logic reigns. 

When I open my eyes again, it is because Aragorn has spoken. “Riders of Rohan. What news from the Mark?” 

The Riders, in an instant, check their steeds and circle tightly around the four of us. Legolas’s grip on me tightens. My rib flares up again; I grab his shoulder and he loosens his hold. 

The lead Rider glares at us from beneath a crested helmet. “What business do an Elf, a Man, and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?” He pauses, and considers me. “And… a _lady._ Speak quickly.” 

Gimli, defiantly, retorts, “Give me your name, Horse-master, and I shall give you mine.” 

Woozily, I think, _Never give your name to a stranger in a strange land,_ like I expect to meet a faerie out here. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me yet. 

Aragorn puts a warning hand on Gimli’s shoulder. Eomer, angry, dismounts with a dull thud and stalks over to him. “I would cut off your head, _Master Dwarf,_ ” he says, levelling a spear at him, “if it stood but a little higher from the ground.” 

Legolas, fucking idiot, bares his teeth. “You would die before your stroke fell.” 

Instantly, all spears are trained on us. We stand back-to-back instinctively. 

I look at Aragorn. He’s definitely supposed to be speaking right now, at least in the movies, I think. 

He says nothing, but places a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

_Ummm, hello?_ I think. _It’s the failure to get us out of this mess for me._

Slowly, Aragorn draws his sword out of its sheath and holds it defensively in front of him. 

Oh, shit. 

I think it’s up to me. 

“Easy!” 

All eyes turn to me. Legolas looks down at me, distinctly confused. 

“I-- um--” 

“Out with it, m’lady. Swiftly, or your friends will meet a swift end,” interrupts Eomer. 

“Uhh, Blondie, could you put me down?” He obliges after a moment’s hesitation, and I lean heavily on him. “I’m Y/N of-- uhh, of the East. This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Gimli, son of Gloin, and Legolas Thranduilion of the Woodland Realm.” The princeling scowls at the mention of his father. “We mean you no harm, Eomer, sister-son of Theoden King. We are friends of Rohan and of your king.” 

“Why didn’t you do that earlier?” mutters Legolas. “And how did you know who he--” 

“--Shut up, Blondie.” 

Eomer breaks in again. “Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe.” He removes his helmet and looks down at us. His expression softens. “Not even his own kin.” 

The Rohirrim lower their spears. “Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished,” continues Eomer. Then, in an accusatory tone, “The White Wizard is cunning. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man cloaked and hooded. And everywhere, his spies slip past our nets.” 

“We are no spies,” says Aragorn, with a gentle raise of his eyebrows. “We track a party of Uruk-Hai westward across the plain. They have taken two of our friends captive.” 

“The Uruks are destroyed,” says Eomer. “We slaughtered them during the night.” 

We are silent. 

_what if they actually are dead?_

Well, they weren’t in the books. Or the movies. 

_but what if it’s different now?_

True. It’s not like the plot hasn’t changed before. 

If the Hobbits are gone, Isengard still stands. The armies of Saruman would ravage Rohan and Gondor. My gate through Mount Doom to the key is cut off before we even reach Edoras. 

This journey has been far too emotional. I need to get home. 

“But there would be Hobbits,” I say, not caring that I sound desperate. “Halflings? Two of them? With curly brownish hair. A little bit stoned, probably. Wearing cloaks, like this.” 

“They would be small,” adds Aragorn, in far calmer a tone than mine. It reminds me to breathe, to think logically. “Only children to your eyes.” 

Eomer shakes his head. “We left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them.” 

In the distance, smoke rises. 

“Dead?” breathes Gimli. His eyes glisten. 

Dead? 

You know what? If they’re dead, fine. I can work with that. 

There has to be a way into Mount Doom. Even if it’s at the expense of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. All they’ve ever done is take the things that matter from me anyway. 

I need to get home. 

No matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh dark!  
> GUYS i just learned how to make a site skin and now everything is pink and i have a serif font and i have never been happier. also root for the lakers and pray that god gives them the ability to hit a three. WAIT they actually just hit one. finally. with 9 minutes left in second quarter. GUYS THEY'RE FINALLY HITTING SHOTS. THIS IS A GREAT DAY. I LOVE ALL OF YOU.  
> BYE I LOVE U DRINK WATER AND WEAR A MASK SEE U GUYS SOON!


	25. the white wizard returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i just figured out that you can do notes before AND after the chapter!!! gamechanger!!!

Hiro hyn hidh ab ‘wanath. 

_May they find peace in death._

Is this my fault? 

Aragorn screams in anguish and frustration. His fea, usually serene and self-assured, sputters and erupts outwards in a roiling wave of anger. He punts the decapitated, helmeted head of a dead Uruk across the plain and crumples to his knees. 

That could have been me. 

I have to get out of here. 

“We failed them,” says Gimli. He hangs his head, turns, and begins to trudge away. Legolas, carrying me, follows him. 

Slowly, Aragorn gets to his feet. A glimmer of hope sparks in the back of my mind. 

But he, too, follows the other two. 

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

What? 

_don’t be stupid, stupid,_ says the voice in the back of my mind again. 

The realization comes, like the disturbingly satisfying denouement of a Shakespearean tragedy, that it is me. 

_that’s the first smart thing you’ve said in a long while, y/n._

She’s right. I’m right. 

_enough of this fuzzy-wuzzy shit, you imbecile,_ says the voice. _remember how it used to be? just you and me. let’s get out of this mess._

_don’t you want ice cream again?_

It’s me from before any of this happened. Old-me. New-me is willing to follow what old-me says; it’s been a long time since I thought of ice cream. 

_tell him to check again. it’s better to be sure than to have to strike a deal with sauron AND saruman._

True. 

“Aragorn.” 

“Yes, Y/N?” His voice is weary; it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk to me right now. 

“Check again.” 

Aragorn’s aura registers exasperation. “Y/N, I know that this is hard for you--” 

Shut the hell up, Aragorn. You know nothing about what I’m feeling right now. “Did I fucking stutter? _Check. Again.”_

He stares. “As you wish.” 

I watch as he gets on his hands and knees, searching. Finally, he looks up at me. “Nothing. I’m sorry, Y/N.” 

I glare. “Then what are those?” 

I gesture to Pippin’s cut bonds on the ground. 

\----- 

Gimli spits it out. “That there is orc blood.” 

“Yeah, I coulda told you that,” I retort, eyeing the viscous liquid dripping from the mottled leaves of Fangorn Forest. The aura here is oppressive: the souls of the trees are trying to speak to me. 

“Y/N?” Legolas looks down at me. “Are you alright--” 

I swat his hand away. For a second, it’s bare skin on bare skin and we both freeze. 

It’s warm. 

“Don’t touch me, _elf,”_ I spit, and the moment is broken. 

Aragorn halts. “These are strange tracks.” 

“The air is so close in here,” says Gimli, fearfully. 

“This forest is old. Very old,” says Legolas. “Full of memory. And anger.” 

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I say. He glares. 

“Should I put you down and let you walk on your own?” 

“Fucking try it.” 

“Maybe I will--” 

Low groans reverberate through the forest, vibrating through the trees and sending chills down my spine. In spite of myself, I hold on tighter to Legolas. Gimli hefts his axe. 

“The trees are speaking to each other,” breathes Legolas, in wonder. 

“Gimli!” Aragorn whisper-shouts. 

Gimli stares. 

“Lower your axe,” he hisses. 

“Oh.” Gimli complies. 

“They have feelings, _mellon nin._ The Elves began it. Waking up the trees, teaching them to speak.” 

Gimli snorts. “What would trees have to speak about?” 

A branch falls on his head. He looks up at the canopy of leaves and shakes his fist. “You’ll not take this Dwarf alive!” 

We continue through the forest. 

The trees are closing in. 

\----- 

It’s there, somewhere. Deep in the heart of the forest. A strange power. 

The White Wizard. 

I glance up at Legolas. “You feel it too, don’t you?” I mutter. Almost imperceptibly, his ears perked up and alert, he nods. “Aragorn.” 

Aragorn turns and faces him. 

“Nad na ennas.” He trudges through the thick undergrowth a little further into the forest, scanning the leaves intently. Aragorn comes up behind him. 

“Man cenich?” he asks. 

Legolas turns, eyes wide. “The White Wizard approaches.” 

A beat. 

“Do not let him speak,” whispers Aragorn urgently. “He will put a spell on us.” 

His hand, slowly, shifts to the hilt of his sword. 

Gimli lifts his axe. 

Legolas transfers me to one arm (how is he doing that?) and reaches for an arrow on the other. (Looks like Bitchface is willing to drop my injured ass on the ground to shoot Gandalf.) 

Aragorn speaks again. “We must be quick.” 

He had no sooner said that than a blinding white light envelopes the clearing. The Hunters swing around to attack. My prediction was right: Legolas lets me fall to the forest floor; I land with a thud and pain shoots up my rib. Still, it can’t keep the shit-eating grin off my face. 

_quit it,_ says old-me. _don’t show your hand yet._

That’s fair. I fight to neutralize my face. 

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits,” says Gandalf, in a booming voice. He always did have a flair for the dramatic. 

“Where are they?” demands Aragorn. 

“They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?” 

Aragorn lunges forwards. “Who are you? Show your--” 

I cut him off. “Cut the bullshit, Gandalf. We need to go.” 

“So I see, Y/N, that you’ve regressed. You have taken the death to heart.” The white light fades to reveal a less sloppy Gandalf, robed in white. 

“It cannot be,” says Aragorn, kneeling. 

Legolas follows his lead. “Forgive me. I mistook you for Saruman.” 

“I am Saruman. Or rather, Saruman as he should have been.” 

“You fell--” 

I’m getting impatient. If this shit goes on for much longer, I’ll kill everyone myself, get the key, and fuck Middle Earth. “No, I’m sure I would have the same fucking reaction if Saruman ventured to tell me that I’d _regressed,_ Gandalf. Listen, we don’t have much time. We already wasted time in the Riddermark, and outside Fangorn. Get your horse and let’s go before Wormtongue has Theoden too far gone.” 

“Y/N!” says Gandalf, sharply. “It would be wiser were you to be less careless with your-- _knowledge--”_

“One stage of the journey is over, Gandalf,” I sing impatiently. “We must travel to Edoras with--” 

“--all speed, yes.” 

“So can I stop finishing your sentences and let’s go?” 

“Edoras is no short distance,” interrupts Gimli. 

“We hear of trouble in Rohan,” adds Aragorn. “It goes ill with the king.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” I say, turning to Gandalf and finding that he has taken no action. “Get your _fucking horse,_ you son of a--” 

“You will not speak to him in that manner!” snaps Legolas. I sigh. 

“Fine. I’ll do it myself!” 

Or at least, I’ll try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY:  
> nad na ennas- something's out there  
> man cenich?- what do you see?  
> \-----  
> ok first things first, celebrations are in order!!! i didn't even realize this but we are over 30 kudos over 100! that's crazy!! more than one hundred people loved this enough to send me a lil heart through my computer! thank you all (especially TheRangerLife, formerly WiseGirl_2.0, and katherine howard, who apparently returned from the land of beheadedness to tell me that i was their new favorite author! and also a ton more people, including someone named nepets, and someone called thebritishfajita or something like that, and also probably more people that i just can't remember the usernames of lol). you guys have been nothing but supportive and just generally great readers!  
> also i've started watching the umbrella academy. klaus is mood. vanya is power lesbian. and five is hot (sorry, i don't make the rules). also the actor's around my age, i'm pretty sure, which is freakin' cool.  
> ok, that's it, i think! love u all! thanks for 132 kudos! y'all rock!


	26. the plan.

We emerge, like ships out of fog, on the edge of Fangorn Forest. The sun is momentarily blinding. 

Gandalf whistles piercingly. 

Nothing. 

“Oh, fuck off,” I say, irritated. “I’ll do it.” I imitate his sound. 

To my surprise, as the echo of my whistle dies off, I’m answered by a neigh. I give it a moment, and a viciously beautiful horse materializes on the horizon. It’s in front of us in a matter of seconds. 

Legolas makes a small noise in the back of his throat. I turn to him. He’s gazing at Shadowfax with awe in his eyes. “That is one of the Mearas, unless my eyes are cheated by some spell.” 

“Shadowfax,” I say. Gandalf raises an eyebrow, which I conveniently ignore. The other eyebrow rises, almost into his hairline, when the aforementioned horse nuzzles my hand almost affectionately. 

“Hey, boy,” I say, and he snorts. “Long time no see.” 

Shadowfax tosses his head in agreement. 

“You’ve met Shadowfax, lord of all horses, before, Y/N?” says Gandalf. 

I frown. “No-o,” I say, drawing out the sound in confusion. “Or maybe yes? I feel like I have.” 

I feel like I have. 

_yeah, but now’s not the time,_ I remind myself. _edoras._

I swing myself up, no stirrups needed, onto Shadowfax’s back. Despite the sharp pain in my rib that comes with the motion, it feels like muscle memory. I could’ve done it a thousand times before. 

The others just gape. 

“Come on,” I say, impatiently. “Let’s go.” 

\------ 

The edge of Rohan. Faint voices come from the edge of the fire beside which I lie; I turn over and blink awake slowly. My rib feels like it’s on fire tonight. How long does it take for a broken rib to heal? I slept for a week straight. 

I could have died. 

The stars are bright tonight. I ignore them. 

Gandalf and Aragorn are talking in hushed voices. “Sauron fears you, Aragorn. He fears what you may become.” 

Aragorn shifts his gaze away. Gandalf continues in soft tones, speaking of Saruman and Theoden and Numenor. Mordor and Mount Doom, Frodo, the Ring. A hundred names. I liked them better as a movie. Not here, not now. Not in real life. 

I drift back into a fitful sleep. 

\----- 

When I wake up, the pain in my rib has dulled somewhat. Now it only hurts when I breathe. Still, I am in no position to fight. In the movies, people always heal faster. 

I should be healing faster. I’m in a _goddamn_ movieverse. 

We are on a rise, looking upon a walled city upon a hill. At its crest is a mansion, glittering gold in the sunlight. 

“Edoras and the Golden Summit of Meduseld,” says Gandalf. “There dwells Theoden, King of Rohan, whose mind is overthrown. Saruman’s hold over King Theoden is now strong.” 

I watch the golden hall-- Meduseld-- with grim eyes. I’m not in the mood to deal with soldiers of Rohan. Or Grima Wormtongue. 

_if I can get to isengard, and find the palantir, maybe…_

So that’s it. That’s the plan. Isengard. My last chance of communion with any of the most powerful beings that walk Middle Earth, or at least the last that I can think of. The battle outside the gates of Mordor might be just a _little bit_ too late to strike a deal. 

I don’t pay attention to anything else Gandalf says. When the time is right, I have to be ready. I have to make sure that I’m prepared for anything, _anything,_ that could possibly go wrong. 

Heal in Edoras. Hopefully, Legolas and Aragorn know some sort of potion, or herb, or something, that could fix my rib. If not, fine. I’ll just have to deal with it like a big girl. 

Survive Helm’s Deep. Easy enough. I’m a girl, and they’ll stick me in the center of the Keep with Eowyn. I don’t like relying on this universe’s disgusting systemic misogyny, but it is what it is. 

Get to Isengard. The hard part: get my hands on the Palantir. When Pippin grabs it, it should be me and not Aragorn that takes it from him. That way, I can make it look like I was trying to help Pippin. A noble cause. 

The only major complications are time, and my rib. I have a miniscule window of opportunity. Fair enough. I can handle it. Assuming my rib is healed, I should be able to take the strain of the Palantir. If not… 

I choose not to think about the alternative. Hopefully, Sauron realizes that I’m his only hope, his gateway into the forces of Men and Elves, and his bridge into my world. I have good cards, and he knows it. 

I look up to Meduseld. A lady in all white, blonde hair fluttering in the wind, watches us. Eowyn. 

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard,” grumbles Gimli, glancing around at the watchful eyes and tattered rags around us. 

We mount the steps of the Hall. My rib flares up, again, and I cough to stifle a groan. Gandalf is leaning heavily on his staff. Sneaky old man. 

A soldier meets us at the top. “I cannot allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame, by order of Grima Wormtongue.” 

Gandalf nods to us. Slowly, reluctantly, we remove our weapons: an Elvish bow and arrows, a Dwarvish axe, two swords, and a paired set of sharp-edged scimitars. 

“I’ll be back,” I murmur to my blades, pressing my index finger down on the point of one until it draws one perfectly spherical drop of red blood. “I promise.” 

Legolas glares at me. 

“Fine,” I seethe. Two knives from inside my boots. One from my hip. My hip flask, filled with poison. My ring, a blade if you twist it. My hairpins, needle-sharp. And the knife that holds my hair up. I frown with distaste as it tumbles down my back. 

Wordlessly, Legolas hands me one of the Elvish pins he uses for his hair. I nod at him. 

The soldier turns to Gandalf. “Your staff.” 

Gandalf peers at him. “You would not part an old man from his walking stick.” 

Hama hesitates, and then nods. 

I don’t miss Gandalf’s wink. Nor do I miss the way he leans on Legolas’s arm, like a frail old man. 

Nor do I miss the way Grima Wormtongue watches me when we enter the throne room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i didn't update for so long! y'all rock. ALSO ik i said i would do a hobbit fic after this but but but i started watching tua and it's just too good not to do lol. so probably coming up??? ok see u guys next time, luv ya bye


	27. {pt. i: is that how you'd like me to end yours?}

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late.” 

Theoden King watches with empty eyes. Beside him, Grima Wormtongue is perched like a hunchbacked, greasy raven. He murmurs something to Theoden. 

“Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?” Theoden’s speech is labored. A tendril of matted white hair falls over his face; he lethargically lifts a wizened hand to swat it away. He looks to Wormtongue-- for affirmation, I guess. 

It’s laughable. Here I was, thinking the leaders where _I_ come from were bad. 

“Late is the hour,” says Wormtongue, stepping off the dais and approaching us, “in which this conjurer chooses to appear.” He circles us. A hand flits out, caresses my cheek. 

I tense. “Keep your filthy hands off me if you don’t want to lose them.” My hand creeps towards the inside of my fluttery Elven sleeve. There is a leather armband, and inside it… 

“She is a feisty one. Lathspell I name her wizard,” hisses Wormtongue. “The girl knows not what company she keeps. Ill news is an ill guest.” 

“Silence,” I spit. 

He pauses. 

“I keep such company of my own accord. My intentions are my own. And I did _not_ come to Rohan to bandy crooked words with a witless worm. Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth, Grima Wormtongue.” 

He rounds on me. This guy is starting to get on my nerves. If he keeps this up, I might just fuck around and stab him. “Quiet, girl.” He leers at me. He could use some Listerine. “You do not know of what you speak.” 

He grabs my wrist. 

Instantly, his arm is twisted behind his back at an unnatural angle. I yank my last dagger-- a gift from Haldir-- out from my armband. He bays like a scorned dog and spits. “Is it your monthly cycle, _wench?”_

I growl. “I started my day in a pool of blood. Is that how you’d like me to end yours?” 

“Y/N!” snaps Gandalf, sharply. He raises his staff. 

Grima gapes. “His staff.” Reluctantly, I let him free from my grasp, and he whirls to face the guards, backing away from Gandalf. “I told you to take his staff!” 

No sooner does Grima say this than his soldiers burst through the lines, swinging punches. The taste of blood, and my eyes water. 

I bring my hands up to my nose. 

_Did he just land a punch?_

“Theoden, son of Thengel,” says Gandalf. Hama holds Gamling back. 

I look wildly around for the soldier who hit me, but I can’t find him. Until he grabs my hair and yanks. Hard. 

“In need of assistance?” Legolas’s fist comes up and the guard behind him falls. 

“No,” I grunt. “I can handle this--” I turn-- “perfectly fine on my-” 

The guard groans as I sink my dagger into his side to the hilt. 

“-own.” 

“Too long have you sat in the shadows,” says Gandalf, raising his staff. 

Aragorn crosses his arms. “You just maimed an innocent soldier.” 

“He wasn’t innocent,” I say, rolling my neck. “He hit me.” 

A frown, but Aragorn says nothing. 

My attention turns to the dais, where Gandalf is approaching the king. Wormtongue tries to crawl away. Gimli pins him with a booted foot. “I would stay still if I were you.” 

“Hearken to me!” Gandalf says. His eyes shut, and two shaking hands come out in front of him. “I release you from the spell.” 

Silence in the Hall. 

Theoden laughs. “You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey.” 

The sound rasps off the walls and reverberates off the columns; I cringe-- this is no normal spell. I can feel it from here: he’s under the power of a wizard. 

They regard each other for a moment: a wizard and the puppet of his rival. _Reveal your hand, Gandalf._

I wait. 

He doesn’t. 

It’s up to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all. i think i owe u guys an apology. i can't believe i didn't update for a whole month!! and then i hit u with the shortest chapter in the history of ever. oopsie. so,, chile,, anywayy,,,,  
> in other news, i started watching legend of korra! atla was super good (i would readily die for firelord zuko, son of ursa) and i really appreciate general iroh's voice lmao. my updates to this story are going to be more few and far between now because school started and i'm in all honors classes which means i have like two tests a day. i hate it here lol  
> expect a longer chapter next time though! see u all soon, lovely readers. waddle on :)


	28. {pt. ii: a new beginning}

A deafening silence. 

I shoulder my way past the guards, past my friends. (My allies. I have no _friends_ here.) I ignore their stares. I lock eyes with Legolas for a second too long. 

I’m the first to look away. 

_deep breaths. remember why you’re doing this._

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

I pounce forward, propelling myself off the balls of my feet onto the dais. My hand splays around Theoden’s neck, pulsing with energy, and I growl. It’s feral. “I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound.” 

Eowen rushes in, white skirts swishing. Taking in the scene in front of her, she lunges at me, but Aragorn holds her back. 

Up close now, I stare in horrified fascination at the king in front of me. His skin is mottled with liver spots and pustules and warts oozing some sort of thick greenish fluid. His hair is a white mass of brambles, matted on the side; his crown is slipping slightly. I press my knife into his neck, and a new aura comes over him. A slimy thread of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, it is not his voice. 

“If I go, Theoden dies.” 

I scoff. My hands glow. “Oh _noooo,_ what a travesty. Look me in the eyes, Saruman.” 

Slowly, Theoden’s eyes lift. I stare back. “I don’t. Fucking. Care. I’ll kill him, and I’ll kill you, too.” 

He coughs. Hate wells in his eyes. “You care. This I know.” 

He’s right. Wait, no, he’s not. I don’t care. Won’t. Can’t. Rohan is mine.” 

I jut out my chin defiantly. “Begone.” 

_Is that really what you want?_ His voice is in my head. 

_saruman._

_Clever girl. Cleverer than that cringing serpent, Wormtongue. You could have Rohan, you know._

I pause. The offer is tempting. 

Theoden-Saruman grins. His teeth are nasty. _Think about it. A kingdom, all your own, to rule. Control. Power. That is what you want, isn’t it?_

He has a point. _rohan is in decline._ I’m trying to reason with him, to gain leverage. But his grin widens. He knows I’ll take him up on the offer. 

_Not under you, it won’t be. I’ll call off my armies. You won’t even have to go home. You could just stay right here, on the throne of Rohan._

I freeze. 

Theoden-Saruman falters. He fucked up. He knows it. 

_so that’s what you’re trying to do? keep me here? low blow, even for a second-rate d-list hasbeen maia with barely enough power left to get it up._ I spit in his face. 

_You’ll regret that._

I laugh. _je ne regrette rien, dickwad._

He leans forwards. I won’t budge. Theoden-- no, Saruman-- struggles against my power for a second. 

A tiny flicker flames in my chest, somehow far deeper than any _fea_ with which I’ve ever connected. I can _feel_ everything: the dais, the floor. The guards. Wormtongue, struggling on the ground. And the last shreds of Saruman’s venom, clinging to the King like fangs on flesh. 

I focus on the flicker. Allow it to grow into a wildfire, ravaging my gut. It _burns._ But it feels good, too. I can hardly breathe. 

When I speak, I could swear flames come out. 

_“Heca.”_

Just like that, the wildfire turns off like a gaslight; I can feel the embers of it sizzling in my stomach. It feels like in tug-of-war, when someone lets go of the other side and you go stumbling backwards-- I tip, floundering, and then I lose my balance and topple off the dais. Theoden King is thrown backwards. He moans and falls from his throne. Eowyn catches him. No one catches me. 

I sit on the ground as his eyes clear, as his white hair recedes, as strength returns to his fingers, his legs. I don’t move. “Breathe the free air again, my friend,” says Gandalf. 

I don’t move, not when Eowyn cries or when Wormtongue is chased out of Edoras. I don’t move when Theoden returns to the Hall, crying out for his son with aching eyes. 

The temptation. The wildfire. 

I could have had a kingdom. A Queen, dark, cold, perched on a throne and ready to strike. 

And even as Eowyn shows me to my room at sunset, the sun sliding down the horizon, red as blood, I sit, unmoving as ice, and I stare at nothing. Something tells me I wasn’t born for the world I was in. 

Something tells me I was born to be more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GLOSSARY  
> Je ne regrette rien- "I regret nothing" (that's French, not Elvish, lol)  
> Heca!- "Begone!" (Quenya)  
> \---  
> omg guys i am so so sorry i didn't update in sooo long! i literally cannot think of any way to apologize to u guys. my brain went "publish a new chapter" but my schedule went no❤️ so anyway expect more regular chapters going forwards. also follow me on spotify, i'm Audvocado (capital a, not the other one lol). i hate it when authors say this stuff but i have a playlist that i listen to while i write and it's called "songs to fuel my lotr obsession >:D" which tbh is so on brand for me 😳  
> another thing, it's my bday this thursday on the 19th! which i'm suuuuper excited for dude, other than the fact that i have two tests that day lmaoo. as always leave a comment and tell me what u think and what you'd like to see because i really miss y'all and i will start naming names if i dont hear from some of y'all. beware >:)  
> see u soon lovely readers!!! ilysmydekhmily!


	29. stars and promises

She can’t be more than 10. 

From where I sit in the bath chamber, on a wood bench beside Eowyn, I can feel her anguish. It tugs from my chest to the pit of my stomach, a roiling black sea that ebbs and flows, crashing over my head in waves. Freda, small and fragile, shivers in the tub. Her hair is plastered limply to the side of her face, but she makes no move to push it aside. The water is full of reds and oranges from the torches mounted on the wall. 

“Freda,” I say gently. She, too, has been pulled away from home and caught in a war that isn’t hers to fight. “Freda, love. Are you ready to tell us what happened?” 

She shakes her head rapidly. Droplets of water splatter against the wall. Her eyes are unfocused. 

“Good girl,” I say. I dip a cloth into the warm water and drag it over her back. She hugs her knees. “Tell us when you are ready.” 

Eowyn makes a _tsk, tsk_ noise. “Pillaging Wild Men in the Westfold, attacking unarmed families.” She leans in to me, speaking quietly so that the shaking girl, struggling to bathe herself, won’t hear. “The War will kill them and us both.” 

“Mama,” says the girl forlornly. 

“Mama will be here soon,” I say. 

“No, she won’t,” says Freda. “Mama is gone.” 

I pet her wet hair, drying it with a towel. “Mama isn’t gone. Mama is just away.” 

“Away,” repeats Freda, vacantly. 

“Yes, Freda,” I say. I put my bare palm on her back and try to push the feeling of _calm_ into her _fea._ Baby steps with my magic. Small victories. A way to use it for something other than mindless killing. My hand hums, pulsing golden and comfortably warm. She relaxes beneath me. “Away.” 

Eowyn scoops the girl, dripping, out of the tub, and helps her into clean clothes. Freda is visibly placated. She smiles sedately. “Dinnertime?” 

Maybe a little too much on the magic. Oops. 

Eowyn chuckles. We exchange a glance. “Yes, Freda,” says Eowyn. “Dinnertime.” 

\----- 

“Rick, cot, and tree,” says Eowyn. 

We all look down at Freda, who is eating ravenously. “Where’s Mama?” 

“She’s not here yet,” says Eowyn, moving to comfort her. Gandalf turns to Theoden. 

“This is but a taste of the terror that Saruman will unleash. All the more potent, for he is driven now by fear of Sauron.” 

“What would you suggest he do?” Aragorn’s voice is the same as always: gently, he commands the conversation. We have fallen back into old patterns. Arms crossed, Gimli and Legolas flank Aragorn. I’m perched next to Legolas; every so often, we make snarky remarks at each other. 

“Ride out and meet him head-on,” says Gandalf, putting a hand on Theoden’s chair. This receives a wary look. “Draw him away from your women and children. You must fight.” 

“You have two thousand good men riding north as we speak,” adds Aragorn. “Eomer is loyal to you. His men will return and fight for their king.” 

Slowly, Theoden rises. His step has none of the youthful briskness of Eowyn’s; his boots punish the stone floors. “They will be three hundred leagues from here by now. Eomer cannot help us.” Before Gandalf can speak, Theoden quiets him. “I know what it is you want of me, but I will not bring further death to my people. I will not risk open war.” 

Aragorn removes his pipe. “Open war is upon you, whether you would risk it or not.” 

“Last I checked, Theoden, not Aragorn, was King of Rohan.” 

“Then what is the King’s decision?” cuts in Gandalf. 

Theoden turns away from us. 

All I can think is, _he’s wasting time._

\----- 

Nighttime in Edoras. 

I’m sitting alone, in my room, scheming, as I tend to do. The shades are drawn. I don’t want to look at the stars. 

_saruman. if he can’t help me, the palantir. i’m going to have to deal with the devil._

A tiny part of me wonders if it’s moral, to do what I’m doing. Can I really leave an entire world to ruin just so that I can go home? 

For some reason, when I close my eyes, blond hair and mallorn trees are burned into my eyelids. Arrows and bowstrings and the stars that aren’t obscured by buildings and traffic lights. The wind blows the drapes aside, and I catch a glimpse of the sky. Tears blur my vision, and it’s as if Van Gogh himself returned to paint: strokes of blue on blue, blots of pure white like snowflakes. Were I up there, it would be a choreographed blizzard, stars and galaxies and nebulae darting and waltzing. For a moment, there’s nothing to think about. What could be more important than the stars? 

I tear my eyes away. 

Aragorn is leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed as always. “Y/N?” 

I grin wetly. “Hey.” 

“May I enter?” 

“Please don’t.” 

He ignores me and comes in anyways, sitting next to me on the bed. His aura is distinctly him, firm and solid and reliable. It feels like the presence of an older brother. As much as he tends to parent me, I need him. 

“I said please don’t, you know,” I murmur, flopping back onto the bed. The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. 

“I know,” he says. “I merely came to ask if you are alright.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I know.” 

We sit in a comfortable silence for a while. After a few minutes pass, I feel words rising and sticking in my throat like bile. I push it down. It surges again. 

“Aragorn, I can’t go on like this!” I exclaim, finally, the dam breaking. The carousel of worries gushes forth like water into a boat. “I shouldn’t even be stuck here in the first place. This war isn’t even mine to fight. I should be at home. Eating ice cream or something. And you know what? That’s another thing!” I shoot to my feet and begin pacing. “I’m sick of Middle Earth not having anything! How hard could it be to invent ice cream? I’m tired and hungry all the time but I never have any appetite and I wish I could go home. And your friends are annoying. I’m not sorry for saying it, either. Legolas is maybe the singular most annoying individual I’ve ever met. All he ever does is try to make me hate him more, and you know what? It works! He’s constantly negating my efforts and beating me down and for what? What have I ever done to him? I wish I could rip his vocal cords out--” 

“--Are you done?” 

Breathless, I nod. “What? Yeah, I’m done.” 

Aragorn smiles knowingly. “You seem quite… invested in Legolas’s actions.” 

“How could I not? He’s such a constant bother!” 

“That is not what I meant. I am sure you know it.” 

I glare at him. “I don’t appreciate what you’re suggesting.” 

“You do not hate him, not really.” 

“Uhhh, yeah, I do,” I say. 

“Hate is a strong word for a strong emotion.” 

“Why do you always act like my dad?” 

“I do not,” says Aragorn calmly. “I am telling you what is best for you--” 

“--like you’re my dad.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But the rest of us see what you do not.” 

“And what is that, hmm, O Wise One?” 

“It is not hatred. It is difficult for an empath to feel hatred. It is more of a… grudging respect. On both sides.” 

“It’s not. Trust me, Legolas hardly deserves respect. From anyone--” 

“Y/N!” snaps Aragorn. I halt. I’ve never heard him raise his voice before. “If you do not respect him, that is fine. I cannot make that decision in your stead. However, do _not_ generalize about what he does and does not deserve. Not until you have fought by his side.” 

“I don’t know where you’ve been this whole time, but I’ve been here--” 

“--Not like I have.” 

“Umm, yes, I have!” I growl. We’re both standing now, arguing in each other’s faces. “I don’t know where you’ve been all this time, but I don’t think you realize what Mr. Platinum Blonde Box Dye was like before you met him! All he did was sit in his daddy’s palace and pine after some Silvan elf.” I’m out of control. My hands glow bright red. The flicker from before is back, dangerous and malicious and untamable. “And you know what? You can try all you like to change a person, but you can’t, okay?” Aragorn’s eyes widen; my entire body has started to glow and hum. My hair stands on end with the build up of static electricity. “ _PEOPLE DON’T CHANGE!_ ” And with that, I explode. 

The rush of energy travels up my body like I’m a lightning rod and bursts forth, roaring. And it strikes Aragorn right in the chest. 

Too late, I realize. The tail end of the blast dissipates with my anger. Aragorn doesn’t look hurt. But he looks _mad._

I freeze. I’ve crossed a line. 

There is a long, sullen quiet. My skin prickles uncomfortably. “Aragorn?” I say, to break the silence. 

I watch as he forcibly, visibly, suppresses his anger. And I feel the shift in the air as it dissolves into thin air. “...This isn’t just about Legolas, is it?” he says, quietly. There is an unsaid forgiveness in his voice. We sit back down on the bed. I fold my hands in my lap. 

“So you’re-- you’re not mad at me?” 

He smiles. “No.” 

“Aragorn,” I say, and then I launch myself into his arms, crying. “How can you not be mad?” I sob. 

I cry silent tears for a long time. 

Long after everyone else has gone to sleep, we sit, awake. He’s probably tired. I feel awful to be an imposition. “He shouldn’t be dead,” I sniffle. 

“What do you mean?” 

“He gave in to the power of the Ring. He wasn’t stupid, Aragorn. He knew it was dangerous.” My frustration rises. “If he loved me, he would have stopped himself. I could’ve--” I sigh. “I could’ve just taken the Ring. It would be so easy, you know? But I stopped myself. And it’s harder for me because I feel everyone’s feelings.” 

“I know.” 

He doesn’t. But I don’t say anything. Even an hour later, when he goes back to his room. Not when I turn over and I don’t face the stars. And not when I promise myself never to love again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiii'm back, bitches! and i have a kind of longer chapter this time :)) as always drop a comment below cause i love talking to y'all! i don't rly have much to say today except that i rewatched pride and prejudice and i forgot how good it was BUT i feel like darcy was miscast? like yk how in the movie he comes off as too shy to talk to ppl but in the book he comes off as too prideful to talk to ppl? yeah that  
> ok also this needs to be settled and i need to prove a point so please please tell me in the comments because this is an emergency and an urgent question: is water wet????  
> k that's it luvs! see u soon!


	30. to have no time.

i | legolas.

“By order of the King, the city must empty. We make for the refuge of Helm’s Deep.” The Rohirrim soldier-- Hama-- delivers an address from the middle of Edoras. “Do not burden yourself with treasures. Take only what provisions you need.”

The murmuring of the crowd grows in my ears like the call of the ocean. Of late, I have been longing to leave, to make for the silver shores of Valinor. I once told my father that I would never leave Middle Earth. Now I follow Aragorn, but my heart chases another.

Whether it is Valinor or something else I seek, I do not know.

“Helm’s Deep,” mutters Gimli indignantly, hefting his axe as we walk amongst the people. “They flee to the mountains when they should stand and fight.”

“I see nothing wrong with it,” I reply. “I thought dwarves liked mountains… and cowardice.”

Gimli and Aragorn chuckle. I look over at Y/N. She is staring with empty eyes into nothing.

“Who will defend them if not their king?” asks Gimli, rhetorically. His boots scuff the floors of Rohan’s stables, sending clouds of dust billowing over a straw-strewn plain.

“He is only doing what he thinks is best for his people,” says Aragorn. If anyone could have empathy for Theoden at such a time, let it of course be Aragorn. “Helm’s Deep has saved them in the past.”

“There is no way out of that ravine. Theoden is walking into a trap. He thinks he’s leading them to safety. What they will get is a massacre.” Gandalf turns to Aragorn grimly. “Theoden has a strong will, but I fear for him. I fear for the survival of Rohan. He will need you before the end. The people of Rohan will need you. The defenses must hold.”

Aragorn holds Gandalf’s gaze, a resolute glint in his eye. “They will hold.”

Y/N and Gimli exchange a glance.

Y/N turns to Shadowfax, stroking his mane. “Three hundred lives of Men you have walked this earth, Gandalf.” Her tone is musing, but her manner is intense. She fixes him steadily with her stare. I know, better than most, what it is to be on the receiving end of those eyes.

It pierces a hole through your _fea._

She chuckles. “I suppose now you know what it feels like to have no time.”

ii | y/n.

I watch as the first few people break the dam. And just like that, it’s a torrent; a river of bodies in multicolored clothing on horses, toting the few possessions they want with them as the world ends. Strangely, I am reminded of traffic on the interstate. I guess my roots aren’t completely gone after all.

It’s moving day in the Great Hall: when I enter, I’m struck by all the movement. Rohirrim ebb and flow in and out, carrying weapons and clothes and heirlooms of Rohan.

“Hello,” says Eowyn brightly. She opens a chest and pulls out a sword. It unsheaths with a metallic _shing._

“Hello,” I say, perching myself on the closed chest.

“You do not wish to spar? Just for practice?”

“I don’t--”

“What, you do not fight?” She cuts off the lie before it can tumble from my lips. “Yes, you do. I watched you. You have powers.” Eowyn grins. “Like the beings of old.”

“I guess,” I say reluctantly. Lying protects my identity. Unfortunately, I forgot that Eowyn witnessed the whole throne room scene. I’m getting sloppy.

“I wish I had powers,” says Eowyn jealously. “I watch you. You are unburdened by court life, by frivolity. You may wear what you wish, fight if you desire. You are armed at all times. And you are not treated like a fragile flower.”

I nod. “I have some advice for you, Eowyn.”

“What?”

I lean in. “Take what you want. And if you really want something,” I say, channeling my inner Waldorf, “you don’t stop for anyone or anything until you get it.”

“Easy for you to say. Look where I stand, and look where you--”

“Yeah. I got to where I stand by threatening Aragorn and almost murdering Legolas in the halls of the Elves.”

“Well, what is it that you wanted so badly that you would do that?”

“Adventure.” A lie. Obviously, I can’t tell the truth. _Oh, just to go to Mordor, give Sauron whatever he wants, get him to build a gateway between our two worlds, and leave Middle Earth to burn! Oh, yeah, and maybe I’ll do the elf while I’m at it._ Wait a minute. _Do the elf?_ Where the fuck did that come from?

She stares at me. Then a smile breaks across her face. “Perhaps you are right, Y/N,” she says. Her fingers skim the flat of her blade. Then she whirls, thrusting outwards.

Her blade is met by Aragorn’s dagger. I watch them make eye contact. Eowyn’s gaze does not soften.

She is a fighter. But Aragorn is not hers.

I almost feel bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaayyy! i'm back!! also merry christmas, happy hanukkah, merry kwanzaa, happy omisoka, happy holidays, happy new year, and saeng-il chuka hapnida! as we can tell i have absolutely no idea how to romanize my own mother tongue. this is embarrassing  
> someone told me they liked hearing my film + literature + music recs so here goes: i rewatched the dead poets society (for the sixth time) this past weekend and i forgot how much that movie always makes me cry. if you liked a separate peace or a prayer for owen meany, you'll love the dps (and vice versa): new england boarding school culture, a central christlike figure transforming the lives of many, and of course, subtle homoerotic undertones!! well, not so subtle, but like. u catch my drift.  
> i don't rly think i have anything else to say so leave kudos (if u feel like it) and definitely leave a comment (that's not an option). i love talking to y'all! u guys are the highlight of my day :))


	31. how the story goes.

i. legolas 

“It’s true you don’t see many Dwarf women,” says Gimli. “And in fact, they are so alike in voice and appearance that they are often mistaken for Dwarf men.” 

“It’s the beards,” whispers Aragorn. The blonde princess of Men-- Eowyn-- laughs and shushes him. Y/N rides behind her, face impassive. I wonder if she still has the moonlily. 

“And this, in turn, has given rise to the belief that there are no Dwarf women, and that Dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!” He chortles, and Eowyn and Aragorn join in. Even I have to chuckle. 

Y/N looks straight ahead. She does not laugh. 

Is she still so broken over Boromir? 

No sooner do I tear my eyes away from Y/N than Eowyn loses hold of the reins. The horse tears through the throng, bucking and rearing, and Gimli tumbles to the ground. I snicker. 

“It’s all right,” says Gimli, waving magnanimously. “Nobody panic. That was deliberate. It was deliberate.” 

Y/N leans over the side of her horse and pulls him up. I study her face. The corner of her mouth quirks up. 

Perhaps I can get her to laugh. I turn to her. “He looked much like a tortoise on his back, wouldn’t you agree?” I mutter. She faces me, hair billowing in the warm Rohan breeze. 

Her hand brushes mine. I freeze. 

It is only a split second, but it is bordering on painful: upon contact, my senses explode with the smell of smoke and the loud rush of crowds, the buzzing and ringing of alien technology, the taste of something sweet and freezing cold (ice cream?), flashing lights in unnaturally bright colors and moonlilies blooming, wilting, falling, rotting, at terrifying speed. The essence of what she is. This is rare, this is unusual. 

Only the most ancient of records mention this, so rare it is. Not even the common copies of the _Ainulindale_ or the _Valaquenta_ tell of the precious experience that is a fea match. 

“Or perhaps a cockroach,” I add. 

She does not so much as smile. But her horse moves in, and we ride side-by-side, and that is enough for me. 

\----- 

ii. y/n 

There is a momentary break. I sit and rest my butt, which is screaming in protest from riding a horse all fucking day. I do my best to ingest Eowyn’s stew, and promptly throw up in a bush. Then we’re back on the road. 

We’ve been riding for a few hours, maybe, when the hair stands up on the back of my neck. I glance at Legolas-- his eyes are fixed on a point on the horizon. 

He turns to me. “You feel it, too.” 

I nod. We lock eyes. His are wide-blown and startlingly blue, as if they know something terrible is going to happen, too. 

Momentarily, I want to tell him how this story is supposed to end. And how I’m going to change it. And what’s on the horizon that’s freaking both of us out. 

But I can’t. 

And so I watch in horrified slow-motion when an orc warg rider appears from over the horizon. When he? they? it? when _it_ knocks Hama down, and he tumbles like a mannequin as the warg bears down on him and Gamling shouts for help. Legolas, from beside me, leaps from his seat and fells the warg. There are too many. 

I feel anger rise like bile in my throat. An honorable opponent would not do this. 

But Sauron has no honor. 

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

I join in the fray too late, eyes and hands and hair ablaze with fea magic. I watch with sick satisfaction as orcs are torn, screaming, in two; their eyes haunted and their faces gaunt as I force them to watch when I pull the blood out of them through their throats. Eowyn rides away with the people of Rohan in tow. There is nothing my fea magic can do to prevent Aragorn being dragged off the cliff. 

This is how the story goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okok i know fea bonds arent TECHNICALLY canon but come on. everyone loves a good soulmate au. also i would like to point out how part of the essence of dear reader is the taste of ice cream. ice cream is really just THAT snack everyone loves ice cream. ik it's totally been a while!! how are yall!! the basketball season started again (points if you're a lakers fan, we love the lakers in this household)! cant wait for summer to come because then i'll have all the time in the world to write lol.  
> feel like i should rec a piece of media, so here goes: achilles come down by gang of youths. im sure a lot of u have already listened to it. it's everyone's dark academia dream. put in ur earbuds, put it on, let the music pound through your skull and your soul and feel the bass in your heart when it conjures images of broken bottles and clouds over lush pine forests, the dip and sway of a thousand plains and mountains and valleys, green as life. that is all pls leave a comment because i miss y'all goodbye :))))


	32. the realm of dreams

All across the plains, the warg riders are retreating. I take some sort of sick satisfaction in plucking one, screaming, off his mount and dragging him towards me. My fea magic has become stronger; the essence of life. I can practically feel his soul with my hands, like it’s a tangible object. Especially when I pull it out of him and choke him with it. 

I have become Death incarnate. 

I look up from the newly-beheaded orc; Legolas is walking towards me at an alarming pace. His eyes are fixed on a point in the distance. “Aragorn!” 

I avoid his gaze. 

“Aragorn?” Gimli calls out, and it’s less of an exclamation and more of a question. I stand from the warg carcass I’m sitting on and trot on Theoden’s heels. A grimacing chuckle grates on my ears; I look at the ground. Near the edge of a cliff, there is a laughing orc. The other two Hunters come up behind me. 

Gimli hefts his axe threateningly. “Tell me what happened and I will ease your passing.” 

The orc spits in his face. “The girl knows.” 

Alarmed, both the elf and the dwarf look at me. I frown down at the orc. Even from here, I can read his soul: his name is Sharku, and he screamed as they pulled him from the mud. 

Sharku’s face contorts as if in pain. “Get out of my head, girl!” 

“No.” I slide a long knife out of my sleeve-- one of my favorites. It’s wicked sharp with a thin, curved blade, almost delicate-looking. He screams when I drive it into his shoulder. “Tell me.” 

“Stop,” he chokes out, so I grind the muddy heel of my boot into the wound. 

“Tell me!” 

He chokes on his words. “He’s dead.” 

No. 

In the movies, and also I think in the books, Aragorn lives. He shows up the worse for wear but otherwise fine at Helm’s Deep, his horse by his side. I can’t think of a single reason why Aragorn could be dead. Except for the fact that the story has changed before. Just by my presence. 

And the orc says it with such confidence that somehow, somewhere inside me, I feel that it’s true. 

“No.” 

Even when I say it out loud, I sound unsure. 

Sharku laughs again. His teeth are filthy black. “Took a little tumble off the cliff.” 

Legolas shakes his head. “You lie.” 

The orc dies with a smile on his face. In his hand is the Evenstar pendant. 

\----- 

“He is truly dead, then?” says Eowyn. 

I shake my head. We sit on her bed, in her chambers; the curtains are drawn thick and dark red. In my hands is the moonlily. It feels like an eternity ago. “I cannot feel his fea. It has fallen far. I fear the worst.” 

Her eyes gloss over. “Say it is not true.” 

“It is,” I whisper. 

“His poor lady,” she says, and I turn to her in alarm. 

“I thought you loved him.” 

“I do,” she says. “But he mentioned another.” I think of Arwen. She’s a lot like Eowyn, a princess of a beautiful realm. Soft words, quiet strength. She’s like a sister to me. And she’s another sacrifice I have to make for the sake of home. A sudden sense of shame washes over me. I feel a compulsion to tell Eowyn everything. 

_don’t be stupid, stupid._

“You should get some rest,” I tell her, and leave her room. 

\----- 

I sleep, but it isn’t rest. 

When I wake up, it’s in a different place. I can feel my fea magic much stronger here, tingling through my fingers like blood back to a limb after it’s fallen asleep. When I look at my hands, I can see it: silver-bright and pulsing with every heartbeat. Instantly, information fills my brain and my senses sharpen, as if just seeing my magic has enhanced it. 

The fact drifts to the top of my mind as if I’ve known it all of my life: I am in the Realm of Dreams. 

I scan my surroundings. With newly heightened vision, I observe each lap of the river, each grain of silt and sand on its banks. I can hear Aragorn’s body as it approaches, and I watch with a sense of unnerving calm as he washes up on the shore. 

The air ripples, and Arwen steps out as if from behind an unseen curtain. She is pure and white and clean and her small stature contrasts starkly with her bloodied lover lying unconscious on the ground. The edges of her image shimmer, and I know she is but a mirage, a projection. 

Aragorn opens his eyes when she kisses him. Neither of them see me. 

“May the grace of the Valar protect you,” she murmurs. Then the dream changes. 

The voice of Galadriel is all around me: _I amar prestar aen… han mathon ne nen, han mathon ne chae, a han nostan ned gwilith._ The world has changed… I feel it in the water, I feel it in the earth, I smell it in the air. A million miles away, Elrond watches gravely from a balcony as an entourage of Elves leave. Their lanterns cast a pale halo around a girl in a grey cloak; it is Arwen. Rivendell is cold, and dark, and blue, and empty. 

_The power of the enemy is growing. Sauron will use his puppet Saruman to destroy the people of Rohan._

A few miles north, there is a tower of obsidian. Orthanc. With my Dream Realm-vision, I can see inside it. Saruman stands in a darkened chamber, hand hovering over the Palantir. My bargaining chip, my ticket home. I feel a sudden tug at my heart and realize it is the dark pull of anger, a feeling of desire. Of possessiveness. I _want_ the Palantir. 

“So you have come, little outlander,” rumbles a voice. It comes from the Palantir. I squint. The orb is ablaze. 

Instantly, the flame engulfs me, searing my skin. I can feel it charring, peeling back, exposing blackened bone. I open my mouth to cry out, but I just get a mouthful of smoke that pours down my lungs and leaves me spluttering. 

“Little witch,” says the Enemy. The smile, the note of arrogance in his voice, they tell me that he knows. He knows what I want, where I wish I was. 

His Eye is upon me. 

I wake up in a cold sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter?? already???? gasp!!! no but rly i am trying to be more productive and more regular in updating this lol. i love u guys!!  
> also also also!! let me know what u would think of me kind of reworking some of the earlier chapters!! kinda wanna adjust the pacing and give it a little bit more oomph and va va voom so someone reading this for the first time would be more into it  
> the next thing in the order of business is (of course) the media recommendation so! i would like to recommend donna tartt's the goldfinch. i'm sure you've all heard of this but it's like urban corruption, american gothic, and dark academia all rolled into one. romance! drama! death! painting heists! fine art! drugs! politics! don't do drugs kids but i would say it does live up to the hype except the last chapter which is kind of trying too hard but other than that it's rly good. hobie is so unproblematic and i stan. he's like uncle iroh lol  
> also i have goodreads if anyone is interested in that: https://www.goodreads.com/audvocado  
> that's it! leave a comment i love yall byeee!!


	33. aragorn returns.

I sit bolt upright, surprised to find sunlight streaming through the windows. I really slept through the night? 

No time to think about that. I have to tell someone about what I saw. 

Without changing out of my PJs, I leap out of bed, leaving the covers a mess, and scramble out the door. I almost trip on the hem of my nightgown hurtling down the corridor. _Hey, nice save,_ I think to myself, before slamming right into someone. 

Blond hair and the scent of the forest. Legolas. 

I look up at him with shining eyes. “He’s alive.” 

\----- 

By the time he arrives, a large crowd has gathered in the courtyard. 

“Where is he?” says Gimli, fighting his way through the masses. “Get out of the way. I’m going to kill him!” 

“Good to see you too, Gimli,” says Aragorn from behind the throng, and I choke out a sob. It really is him. I weave my way between people towards the disembodied voice. 

“You are the luckiest,” a sniff, “the canniest, the most reckless man I ever knew. Bless you, laddie!” exclaims Gimli tearfully as I finally break through the crowd. 

It’s Aragorn in the flesh. He looks awful. Neither of us have to say a word. 

I launch myself at him and throw my arms around him, and he grins, hugging me back. “Hello, Y/N.” 

“You idiot,” I hiss. “You need a bath.” 

We break apart, and he looks at me. “Y/N, where is the king?” 

Gimli nods at the Hall. 

\----- 

_“Le ab-dollen,”_ says Legolas seriously. Then the corners of his mouth turn up; a rare smile. “You look terrible.” 

_“Ni lassui,”_ replies Aragorn. 

“I look incredible, of course,” adds Legolas. I roll my eyes, and he looks at me completely deadpan. “We both know it to be true.” 

I look at Eowyn with a Cheshire Cat grin on my face and point at Aragorn. _I know,_ she mouths, a twinkle in her eye. Then her smile fades. I look behind me to see why. 

Legolas hands Aragorn a glittering jewel on a chain: the Evenstar pendant. Aragorn nods reverentially. _“Hannon le.”_

I look back at Eowyn. 

She is torn. 

\----- 

The dining hall is empty except for Eowyn and I. The other Hunters are with Theoden, planning for the coming battle. I am tired, and drained. After today’s events, I went back to sleep, only to find myself back in the Realm of Dreams. There, I sent a call for help to Galadriel. But it took a lot of my power to do so. 

They come in the books and movies, of course. But this is not a book and it is not a movie. This is horribly, terribly real. And my presence changes everything. Calling the elves was a precaution; a necessary one. 

We need the Elves of Lothlorien, or we will all die in Helm’s Deep. 

“They would have me hide in the depths of this fortress,” whispers Eowyn angrily. “‘Watch over the children,’ they will say. I can fight.” 

“Who else is gonna lead them, Eowyn?” I say. “You’re strong. The other women need you. The children need you. _We_ need you.” 

“If you need me, then let me fight!” she exclaims, and then takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I am sorry. I should not have yelled.” 

“It’s fine,” I say. “Legolas is probably gonna want me to hide with you.” Then, under my breath, “Stupid elf.” 

Eowyn smirks. “You feel very strongly about that elf, don’t you?” 

“Yes!” I cry, exasperated. “I mean, he’s so annoying! And it’s only towards me! Absolutely incorrigible! You wanna know the worst thing about it? No, no--” I shush her-- “stop laughing, it’s not funny, he’s actually that bad. The worst thing about it is that as much as I hate him, I’m starting to like him.” 

She grins knowingly at me. 

“Shut up,” I grumble. “It’s not like that. He’s just a really good friend to Aragorn, that’s all. And a great fighter. Although that might be his mystical elf magic or something. And I really respect how he put aside his differences with Gimli for the good of Middle-Earth--” 

_“‘--it’s not like that,’”_ mocks Eowyn. 

“No, like, I’m dead serious.” 

She snorts. “The only thing I observe you being ‘dead serious’ about, Y/N, is your meaningful relationship with the Prince of Mirkwood.” 

I roll my eyes and laugh, but inside, I’m panicking. I can’t fall in love in Middle Earth. I need to find the key in Mount Doom. With the help of Sauron. And I need to get back home. 

I’m not falling in love. 

Am I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> le ab-dollen: you are late  
> ni lassui: thank you; i am glad  
> hannon le: thank you  
> \-----  
> guys!! we have hit 300 kudos!! it is absolutely INSANE to me that 300 different people liked my writing enough to leave a kudo??? like thats wild man. i feel like we should celebrate in some way, so 🥳🎊🎉 <\- there's our little miniature party. do a lil dance! pat urself on the back! life is good and the powerful play goes on!!  
> idk if i shared this poem before but if i have, it's worth sharing again. i recommend this is just to say by william carlos williams. i think it remains the funniest poem i have read to date (unless i am the globglogabgalab counts, which i dont think it does). lol  
> aaand that's it i think! leave a comment bc i love talking to yall!! until next time, lovely readers :)


	34. a pronounced effect

I can do naught but watch as Y/N and Eowyn embrace, then separate tearfully. One is to sit deep in the caves of Helm’s Deep with the people of Rohan. The other is to lend her gift to battle. 

To my surprise, there is a flicker of anger that comes in my chest at this thought. I do not think it fair that Y/N should be expected to just give. She is an empath; her fea magic is rare. I wonder: can she feel it when someone dies? What would we do should she die? 

What would _I_ do should she die? 

No. I must prevent her from fighting tonight. She will not like it, but I have to. 

I muster my courage and approach her. She does not look up from the blade she is sharpening. I recognize it as the blade she used to torture information out of the Orc. 

“Y/N.” 

She jumps. It is fascinating to me that she can never hear me approach. 

“Legolas.” There is a note of exhaustion in her voice. I wonder what her life was like before the war. I wonder where her home is. I remember hearing her speak to Haldir, once. She is from another realm where they have airplanes and ice cream and buildings so tall they look as if they scrape the sky. It hurts to know that this is information she chose to trust the Marchwarden with. She trusted Aragorn, Lord Elrond, Arwen Undomiel. Even the twins, Elladan and Elrohir. I wonder if she told Boromir. 

The emotion that fills me next is one I have not felt for many years: jealousy. If she told Boromir, she did not tell me. 

Perhaps she did not tell me because I continue to hold her back. 

I remember that when she first came, she picked a moonlily with total ignorance. She attended a secret council of Elrond, and then proceeded to be allowed on the quest. She is a formidable enemy and a dangerous fighting force. But she is also just a daughter of Man. 

_And I am just an Elf,_ I remind myself. 

For what reason does she hate me? I look at her sometimes when I think she is not looking. I can feel her eyes on me when I look away. I feel that I have made it clear I wish to be friends. But I know that Elves can often be distant. I am unusually open, unusually _emotional_ for an Elf. My father found it distasteful. Yet even still, I am reserved. Perhaps she does not know that I feel more for her than the faint irritation we once shared. 

“Is there a reason you’re here?” says Y/N. 

“I…” The words lodge in my throat. She would not take kindly to my suggesting that she should stay in the caves. 

She sighs impatiently. “Turn around, Blondie.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“Turn around. I’m changing.” 

“Ah. Apologies.” I do as she asks. I can hear the rustling of cloth and the distinctive clank of armor from behind me. 

“Okay,” she says, after a pause. “All done.” 

I turn and nearly choke. 

I pride myself on my Elvish heritage. We do not show much emotion. When we love, we love deeply. Our way of life is the purest existence one can have in Middle-Earth. My culture is, without a doubt, beautiful. 

This being said, I did not expect Y/N in Elvish armor to have such a pronounced effect on me. 

“You’re being awfully quiet,” she teases. “Can’t tell if that’s a bad thing or a good thing.” 

_It’s a good thing._ “Where did you get that armor?” 

“It was all that fit me in the armory.” And even then, it does not fit well. I can tell she feels my gaze on her as it sweeps up her figure: the armor is incorrect in multiple places. 

“This is your first true battle.” The statement is not meant in any way to wound her pride. It is simply fact. Nonetheless, she reddens and looks away. 

I am right. We both know it to be true. She fought wargs on the plains of Rohan, and goblins in Moria. These are nothing compared to what the coming battle will be. Aragorn said that all Isengard had been emptied. 

I doubt we stand a chance. But I do not say this. Instead, all I say is, “You fastened your armor incorrectly.” 

“Gee, thanks,” she says, but she allows me to reach around her waist, tighten the straps. To take her arm and turn the silver gauntlet. To trace the curve of her back where the corset hooks fasten. To kneel at her feet and lace the boots up the back of her calves. White fabric peeks out from below her chestplate. She looks like the Moon. 

When I am done, we stand in silence. 

“Be careful,” I whisper, finally, and she smiles. 

“You too. Don’t die on me,” she replies, and with that, she is gone. 

I stare after her. 

From behind me, Aragorn chuckles. I start. I was so focused on Y/N that I did not hear him approach me. 

“I knew you liked her, _mellon nin,_ but I did not know you loved her.” 

“I do not,” I say, but we both know that to be a lie. Love is a strong word; thus, it is the only word I can think of to describe the way I feel for Y/N. 

“You do,” he says. “I must add, I did not think her to be the type of woman you would be interested in.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“She is headstrong and quick and outspoken. She is the opposite of an Elf. Though she is similar to the fire-haired Captain of the Guard-- what was her name--” 

“--and that is irrelevant now,” I say, vaguely embarrassed. 

He rolls his eyes. “Of course it is. But Y/N is, for a lack of a better word, _casual--”_

Horrified, I cut him off again. “Elves do not love _casually, mellon nin._ You were raised Estel; you know this as well as I do.” 

“I know,” he says, and sensing my discomfort, changes his gaze to the swarm of men preparing for battle. He picks up a sword and casts it away, discouragement written across the lines of his face. “Farmers, farriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers.” 

Gimli joins our group. “Most have seen too many winters.” 

“Or too few,” I add. “Look at them. They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes.” 

The men around us turn and stare. I turn away stormily, but when I turn back and continue, it is in Sindarin. _“Boe a hun. Neled herain… dan caer menig!”_ And they should be; three hundred against ten thousand! 

Aragorn faces me with all the confidence he can muster. _“Si beriathar hyn amar na ned Edoras.”_ They have a better chance of defending themselves here than at Edoras. 

“Aragorn,” I say, in an attempt to reason with him, _“men i ndagor. Hyn u-ortheri. Natha daged aen.”_ We are warriors, but they cannot win this fight. They are all going to die. 

A rare anger crosses Aragorn’s face, and he explodes. “Then I shall die as one of them!” 

A sudden shame fills me, and I understand why Aragorn does this. He leads them into hopeless battle because he must. It is his duty: not as Aragorn the Man, but as Elessar, the King. 

Our gazes lock for a moment, but Aragorn turns and stalks away. I want to follow him. But Gimli puts a hand on my arm. 

“Let him go, lad,” he says, and I know that he is right. “Let him be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the slow burn arc is coming along!! we love to see it!! and we stan legolas's internal thoughts reading like a hozier song lol. also im trying to include the elvish translations within the story instead of having a glossary because i feel like then it's easier to read and follow the flow of. idk. u guys tell me what u think of it bc obviously i want the ~interface~ of my formatting to be nice n smooth lol  
> anyway today's media suggestion is one of my favorite shows, merlin! yall have definitely seen this before lol but it's kind of? similar to lotr lol. also morgana was like my bi awakening so. it's not v historically accurate if ur an anglo-saxon mythology fan but go in with an open mind and the knowledge that merlin and arthur are So Incredibly Gay. also s1e1 morgana in the red dress is such a power move. smaug is a better dragon tho. i dont wanna spoil too much so i'll stfu ab that lol  
> as always leave a comment! i feel like i haven't talked to some of u that used to comment regularly in foreverrrr because i keep going on hiatus and losing all my readers but i miss yall sm!! so anyway yayayay leave a comment ily until next time lovely readers byeeee!


	35. there is always hope

“We don’t have much of a chance, do we?” I murmur to Aragorn, and wonder silently whether Galadriel got my call. Without the Elves of Lothlorien, we probably have no chance whatsoever. 

We stand on the battlements, watching men scurry to and fro, preparing Helm’s Deep for imminent doom. In the movies and books, they win this fight. But it is close. It is almost Pyrrhic. 

Many of these men will die tonight. 

“No. But we will do what we must,” he says, and for what feels like the millionth time, I wonder how the hell I got in this situation. No, really, what was it? It feels like a different lifetime when I stepped through my door only to fall into Middle-Earth. 

Both of us watch a little boy holding a sword. His grip is wrong and it is the wrong size for him. At the beginning of this ordeal, I wouldn’t have recognized that. 

Can I even go home now? When I’m a different person altogether? 

“Aragorn?” 

“Yes, Y/N?” 

“Are my thoughts supposed to be this existential before a battle?” 

He laughs. “I had forgotten that this was your first. Anything is normal before your first battle.” 

“Oh.” We’re both quiet after that, and I watch the boy fiddle with the hilt of the sword. He looks at Aragorn shyly, but averts his gaze when he realizes we’re both looking back at him. 

“Give me your sword,” says Aragorn. The boy whips around, eyes widening, and then, slowly, obeys. Aragorn takes it, studies the pommel. “What is your name?” 

“Haleth, son of Hama, my lord.” His voice is quiet and polite. It’s not the voice of a soldier. “The men are saying that we will not live out the night. They’re saying it is hopeless.” His blond hair hangs long over guileless blue eyes. I can feel his fear; I try to soothe it. 

Wordlessly, Aragorn tests the balance, the weight of the sword, swinging it, holding it before him. I can tell from his aura that he thinks it’s the rustiest piece of metal he ever saw. But he says, “This is a good sword.” 

_press x for doubt,_ I think. Clearly, Haleth agrees. 

“Haleth, son of Hama,” says Aragorn, leaning down, “there is always hope.” 

As we walk away from the battlements towards the armory, I look at Aragorn. He looks back at me. Our shoes click loudly in the empty corridor. 

I frown. “That was a terrible sword.” 

He gives me the Eyebrows of Disappointment. “I know. But we must have hope.” 

“Have hope?” I say. “Hope is all we have.” 

We’ve reached the armory. Aragorn holds the door open for me, and I step inside into the heat and the confusion. “Hope is not all we have,” he says. “We also have you.” 

“You big sap,” I tell him, as he pulls on his chain mail and straps on a dagger. 

Someone hands Aragorn his sword. We both turn to see Legolas, looking… sheepish. Almost apologetic, I realize with surprise. I didn’t know Malibu Barbie was capable of remorse. 

Aragorn takes the sword. 

“We have trusted you this far,” says Legolas. “You have not led us astray.” He pauses. “Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.” 

Aragorn shakes his head. _“U-moe edhored, Legolas,”_ he says. _There is nothing to forgive._

They smile, each placing a hand on the shoulder of the other. They really do have a great friendship. If I didn’t love Arwen so much, I’d probably ship Legolas and Aragorn. 

I laugh at Legolas. “Didn’t know you did apologies, Princeling.” 

He faces me with a look of false affrontedness. “I am an Elf! We have impeccable honor,” he says, and I shake my head, laughing. 

“Still. I’m proud of you.” 

“Truly?” He looks like an excited puppy. 

“Don’t let it get to your head.” 

“If we had time,” says Gimli in his gruff brogue, and we both turn to face him. He is wearing a chainmail vest and holding a silver bundle in his hands. “I’d get this adjusted,” he says, and lets the bundle drop. The chainmail vest pools in a heap around his feet. 

“I think you should leave the dresses to me,” I snicker, and Legolas and Aragorn smile, but Gimli is unfazed. 

“It’s a little tight across the chest.” 

We nod in feigned agreement. But this is cut off by a resounding horn from outside that hangs, melodious, in the sweat-laced air of the armory. Legolas’s ears perk up, and he’s already halfway out the door. “That is no Orc horn.” 

I break into a shit-eating grin. They got my message. They came. 

\----- 

The Elf army stands at attention, rows and rows and rows of gleaming armor under a brilliant moon, led by my favorite Marchwarden. I want to laugh. I want to cry. We can win this battle. 

“How is this possible?” says Theoden, stunned and delighted. Haldir remains stoic. 

“I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell. An alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and die--” 

“--HALDIR!” 

We have finally broken through the crowds and stand at the top of the stairs. Gimli and Aragorn are both grinning. Even Legolas has to smile. But I’m practically falling down the staircase trying to get to him. 

Haldir fights a laugh. “Long ago we fought and died together. We come to honor that allegiance.” 

Aragorn gets through the crowd first. _“Mae govannen,_ Haldir.” 

Haldir extends a hand to Aragorn, the traditional Elvish greeting. Aragorn completely disregards this and grabis Haldir in a bear hug. He looks like a deer in headlights, but he carefully hugs back. I laugh at him. He makes a face at me as he greets Legolas. 

“Okay, move over, princeling,” I say, impatient. Then I turn to Haldir, beaming. “You came! You got my message!” 

“Of course I came, _tinig,”_ he says. _Little star._ I laugh and throw my arms around him. He pats my shoulder. “This is too many hugs in too little time.” 

“Well, I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

As we break apart, the army of Elves about-face. Haldir bows before Theoden. “We are proud to fight alongside Men once more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo!! short chapter today (sorry lol). i just think it's funny asf that aragorn is like "this is a good sword" ???? miss girl we can ALL see ur lying but ok i guess :)  
> alsoooo peep the slow burn development!! they literally have one moment of semi-affectionate conversation and i was like freaking out while writing it lol  
> uhhh so for today's recommendation it's actually a song from the hobbit soundtrack. it's tauriel's theme, the feast of starlight, and i'm pretty sure it plays while she and kili are talking about the moon and the stars and stuff. on spotify, there's that part at 1:25 that just. gets me Every Single Time :))) like it gives me goosebumps n everything!! 10000/10 totally recommend!  
> just wanted to let u guys know that my ig is @aud.vocado in case anyone wants to know what i look like or what im doing irl lmao. drop socials in comments and i'll follow yall cause yall are great and ily!! also drop ideas for next fic, do u guys want to see the same ship? a different ship? a reader insert? or a diff fandom altogether? or just comment if u wanna chat lol i luv u all until next time lovely readers!!


	36. ilthaniel

Of course, it starts raining. 

We’re standing on the battlement and all of a sudden thunder rumbles and the heavens open up. The stone is slick with rainwater; my hair, grown out since I arrived in Middle-Earth, goes frizzy and tangled almost instantly. Wordlessly, Legolas hands me a hair tie, and I tie my hair back. I should’ve done that before the battle. Way to go, Y/N. 

The last time it rained this hard, I remember, was when I first landed. I was in front of the Prancing Pony, and I was kind of hoping I had landed in the book universe rather than the movieverse. That was a stupid thing to hope for. I was also hoping I had arrived after the war. And I arrived right at the beginning of it. Go figure. 

Still, I’ve learned a lot about resilience, about survival. About second chances. It could be worse. 

Until lightning flashes, and I see the sheer extent of the army in front of me. 

“Whatever luck you live by,” says Legolas, “pray to Eru that it lasts the night.” 

_eru,_ I think, _if you exist, please let us survive tonight so i can go back home and stop screwing with your dimension._

Then lightning flashes again, and again I see the legions of Orcs and goblins and Uruk-Hai and wargs; rows of spears and crudely made swords with cruel blunt ends ready to pummel me to death, and all thoughts of Eru leave my mind. All I can say is, “Jesus Christ!” 

Aragorn looks at me in alarm. “What?” 

“He’s no one,” I say. “At least, not here.” 

“What’s happening out there?” says Gimli, trying to jump and look over the battlement wall. 

“Shall I describe it to you?” asks Legolas, looking down at the Dwarf with a grin. “Or would you like me to find you a box?” 

Gimli laughs. 

The Uruk-Hai commander, apparently fed up, roars. The army pounds its spears on the ground; it produces a noise like rolling thunder that beats in my chest in time to the nervous throbbing of my heart. I am awkwardly aware of the strange feeling in my gut, my arms, my legs; of the sweat on my palms. 

Across the line, an old man loses his grip on his nocked arrow. The arrow soars out into the sea of invaders and strikes one directly in the chest; it falls down, dead. 

“Shit,” I mutter, just as Aragorn calls, _“Dartho!”_

I laugh derisively. _Hold._ So much for that. The Uruk-Hai will not hold; they will raze us down without hesitation. 

The Uruk-Hai commander roars again and thrusts his sword forward. The horde rushes towards the wall. They look like a swarm of hornets, crawling, reaching a million tiny stingers and antennae towards my exposed flesh. I shiver. I feel sick to my stomach. 

“Stay here,” whispers Haldir to me. 

“With the archers? I couldn’t shoot if my life depended on it.” 

“All the same,” says Legolas. 

“No, I’m going with Aragorn,” I say, as the latter calls, _“Tangado halad!”_

Taking his cue, the archers prepare to fire one by one. “It would reassure me greatly if you remained behind the front lines, _mellon,”_ says Haldir. 

There’s no time to argue. And a part of me agrees with him. I’d like to make sure I don’t die tonight. I have to get back home. “Fine,” I growl. “But I’m not using a bow.” 

“Then what are you using?” 

“This,” I say, and my hands are instantly ablaze with clear, pale light that casts ambiguous shadows in the deep of the night. I crouch in ready position. I have some new moves I’ve been working on, and I’m excited to try them in real battle. 

_“Faeg i-varv din na lanc, a nu ranc,”_ says Legolas, more to the archers than to me. _Their armor is weak at the neck, and underneath the arms._

The Elvish warriors release a volley, Rohan’s archers close behind. It fells the first few lines. But there’s a lot more where those came from. 

Volley after volley soars into the lines of Isengard. The front line is felled, and felled again. Still, the attack cannot be halted. A sea of Uruk-Hai approaches the fortress. 

_Zip._

I freeze. 

It’s a narrow miss, but another arrow flies past my ear. A soldier of Rohan is hit. He tumbles into the fray below. And then another, and another. And then an elf. 

I have to look away as they are torn apart. 

Almost too quickly, another horror: ladders. Masses of Uruk-Hai begin scaling the wall. I try pushing a ladder off, but no good-- it’s too heavy. The dark closes in around me. The rain has me soaked to the bone and shivering. The Elves unsheathe swords and prepare for melee combat. So much for staying behind the front lines. 

The first Uruk-Hai comes over the wall, and it’s as if a dam is breaking; they begin pouring over the wall in unstoppable torrents. Next to me, Gimli hefts his axe, the first to make contact. Haldir’s sword is singing on the other side of me, almost invisible in the dark. 

I turn just in time to dodge the blade of an Uruk-Hai. The metal misses my head by perhaps a centimeter. I swing; he parries, but he is not expecting magic. My fist connects, flaming, and he slumps. Dead. I back up only to find another. 

Swing. Swing. Parry, stab, dead. “Legolas!” calls Gimli. “Two already!” Turn, magic, slice. Dead. 

“I’m on seventeen!” yells the elf, and I growl in unison with Gimli. How is he so far ahead? I whirl and grab an orc by the top of his head and pull up until he is balancing on his tippy toes, then drive my knife into his ribs. When I pull it out, it’s dripping with dark blood, and the carcass joins the others on the ground. 

“I’ll have no pointy-ear outscoring me,” barks Gimli, hacking at another Uruk-Hai before it can climb over the wall. No time to watch, no time. An orc clubs me in the head. Tasting blood, I shear his arm off, then behead him in the same swing. A clean stroke. There is blood on my shoes, caked under my fingernails. I want to scrub it off. It’s everywhere, crawling down my legs, my arms. I feel slightly dizzy. 

Shake it off. Shake it off. Seeing no other option, I pull fea energy out of the nearest Uruk-Hai and push it into myself. It feels like a million little needles puncturing my skin everywhere. But it energizes me. 

Legolas’s voice comes from above. I can hear the stupid fucking smirk in his voice. “Nineteen!” 

_yeah, yeah, princeling,_ I think. _let’s see how cocky you are once i try these new moves._

I plunge my sword into the skull of a goblin and twist. Pulling it out, the blade creates a white line of afterglow in the air, as if it’s a sparkler. Blood splatters on the floor. Another is on me instantly. Stab, dead. 

If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel the essence of the sword itself. Swing, block, duck. It’s of Elvish make. Slash, dead. It has a name, Ilthaniel, Starkindler. Stab, slash, I can’t connect. A narrow miss: the Uruk-Hai I’m fighting lops off the tails of my hair ribbon. 

“That was Legolas’s,” I growl, leaning into the fight. I let Ilthaniel guide me. The Uruk-Hai stumbles off the ledge and falls into the sea of enemies. 

A Quenya name (guess it was made a while ago) and a feminine suffix. Huh. Weird sword. 

I’m sick of the sword. Let’s try something different. 

Ilthaniel seems open to it; in my experience, feminine energy is more malleable than masculine energy. As I down another Uruk-Hai, I wonder briefly if it’s because of the fragile male ego. Ilthaniel hums in agreement. At least _someone_ is on the same page. 

With every enemy I kill, I learn more about my sword. A stabbed gut. Ilthaniel has been waiting for a new handler. A slit throat. She has not tasted blood in centuries. A severed head. Her fea can be molded, but no one has tried since the First Age. It will take a lot of power. 

That’s all the ticket I needed. 

I reach deep inside myself and pull the energy, but as I drain, I quickly realize I cannot supply all of it and survive. Without wondering if this will corrupt the sword, I pull energy out of the surrounding Uruk-Hai. 

Ilthaniel doesn’t like that; she makes it abundantly clear as the depleted Uruk-Hai fall, dead. 

“That’s cheating,” says Gimli, and I raise an eyebrow at him. “You can’t just magic away all your opponents.” 

“Awww. Someone’s jealous,” I pant, exhausted from the powerful magic. Can I cleanse Uruk-Hai energy? 

Yes, I can. 

I am almost falling down. The attempt has weakened me greatly. I almost stumble right into the blade of an Uruk-Hai; it falls dead and I recognize Legolas’s arrow. 

I do it, down to the last bitter shred. I cleanse the souls of a thousand murdered Uruk-Hai. They were Elves once. And I channel every last bit of that fea into Ilthaniel. 

I sit straight up and gasp. 

If I have felt pain before, it has not been like this. Every inch of my skin is crackling and burning away. My lips crack; my eyes open wide. When I scream, I can _see_ the negative energy expelling itself from my mouth. It feels awful. 

But it feels _so good._

The pain stops, like a tap shutting off. And in its place is raw power. 

Ilthaniel is mine: a six-foot mithril staff topped with a glowing jewel. Powerful, invincible, infallible. Nothing and no one can stand in my way. 

And then my body tumbles like a mannequin, blown back by a massive explosion that has blasted a gaping hole in the impregnable fortress of Helm’s Deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sword is a she the sword is a she!! we're so here for shapeshifting swords in this household :))) fem swords club ALSO ilthaniel is actually tolkien's rejected quenya cognate for the sindarin gilthoniel but he decided to make the quenya version of gilthoniel tintalle instead. as we can tell i need to stop researching useless languages like im literally taking latin in school and im never gonna use half the languages i speak (no rly, i speak 3 actual languages, 2 conlangs, and 1 dead language no wonder i dont get any sleep)  
> hehe magic go brrr  
> anyway today's media suggestion is actually another fanfic!! i think it's available on fanfic.net but if u ship dramione (or if u dont lol) its still a great fic. yall have definitely already read it but it's called isolation (yep, its a classic) and i skipped the smutty parts cuz they made me ~uncomfy~ lol but it was def an emotional roller coaster and also draco and hermione shouldve ended up tg i will live and die by my ship thank u v much. if u think ab it all of dante's works were just bible fanfiction and thats coming from a christian so like i feel like maybe in the future historians will regard fanfic as like actual literature or smt lol  
> yeah! soooo thats it i think. leave a comment cause as always i luv yall!! until next time, lovely readers :)))


	37. melloneg

“Aragorn! Fall back to the Keep! Get your men out of there!” 

From my perch on the battlement, I barely hear Theoden call. We must retreat to the Keep. And someone must bring Y/N. 

I leap to the ground and search for her; her body is lost in a sea of retreating men. I saw her as she was blown by the explosion. But she is still alive. She must be. I would feel our fea bond as it severed had she died. 

Wouldn’t I? 

She is here somewhere. 

I feel a strange twinge in the back of my mind, one that I have not yet encountered. I allow it to guide me through the battle. I find it objectionable to use the two knives I keep strapped to my back, but it is a necessary evil. It is my responsibility as a member of this Fellowship to find my comrade. We are divided enough as it is. 

“Legolas.” 

I turn, and there she is, standing incredibly still and appearing to be incredibly lost. I smile at her, but she does not smile back. Her grip is loose around the mace in her hand. _“Odulen an edraith anlen,”_ I say, and she frowns. _I have come to rescue you._

Her eyes are frightened. There is blood in her hair. My smile dies on my lips, for I can feel that something is wrong. 

“Legolas,” she says in a strange voice, “where is Haldir?” 

“I do not know, _mellon nin._ Likely he is leading his company into the Keep, which is where we should be--” 

“--no.” She breezes past me, screaming, “Haldir!” 

What is wrong? 

I look behind me just in time to see it. 

An Uruk-Hai leaps in front of the Marchwarden, who makes quick work of it. But another comes from behind him and stabs him in the arm. 

No. 

Time slows; Haldir staggers. He kills the Uruk and looks down at his arm in abject disbelief. The rush of the fray is the dull roar of the river in my ears. I watch, helpless, as Haldir whirls, lost to his purpose. 

It cannot be. 

I nock an arrow, but too late. An Uruk brings his foul sword down into the head of my friend, who freezes. Sways. Falls to his knees as my world spins around me and my legs carry me towards him independent of my will. 

It cannot be, it cannot be, it cannot be. 

“Haldir,” I murmur, and my voice is that of a stranger, and the Marchwarden of Lothlorien dies among his fallen kinsmen. 

Beside me, Y/N chokes. I am surprised to find myself by my friends: Aragorn, on his knees on the rain-soaked ground, Haldir, lying in the arms of Gondor’s lost heir, and Y/N, who looks unready to believe that Haldir is dead. 

Not unready, I realize. Unwilling. Y/N is unwilling to believe that Haldir is dead. 

_“Melloneg,”_ I say, putting a hand on her arm. She shakes it off, ignoring the endearing term. 

“No,” she says. Her voice is too loud, too clear in the accursed night. “No, I won’t let this happen again.” 

She kneels by Aragorn. Her chest rises and falls in a grounding breath. And then her hands begin to glow. 

“Y/N!” says Aragorn sharply. The emotion that I feel now is entirely unfamiliar to me. Erratic palpitations of the heart, shallow breaths, heightened senses, all the signs of alarm. But this feeling is somehow more intense, more acute. “Y/N, you are exhausted. You might not survive this.” Aragorn is trying to talk her out of this-- whatever she is about to do. 

“I have to,” she says, and I feel my stomach lurch at the cold tone of resoluteness her voice carries. “I let Boromir die. I will not lose another friend tonight.” 

Terror. This is the emotion that I feel. Wretched fear for my friend, ally, and soulmate. 

Her brows furrow, and she slumps forwards as her hands glow brighter. When I look away, the shape is burned into my eyes, so bright is her magic. The color drains from her face, from her lips, from her neck. 

She is giving her own life force. Trading herself for Haldir. 

“Y/N,” I gasp, making to stop her, to pull her away, but Aragorn holds me back. He is, as always, right. I know that there is no stopping her now. Her will is set as steel. 

She is out of control. A star, burning too hot and bright for her own good. I feel my heart tear in two; prepare to say goodbye to my soulmate before I could even say hello. 

Haldir sits up straight, not a scratch on him, and draws a colossal gulp of air into his lungs. 

“Is she still alive?” My voice is far too calm. 

Aragorn checks her breathing, her heartbeat. Then he looks back up at me. For a moment, I fear the worst. 

Then he grins. “She’s a fighter.” 

\----- 

When I wake up, I am slumped against a stone wall. 

_Crunch._

“Legolas?” I breathe. The elf in question is crouched next to me. I can feel the heat radiating from his body: even after the rain, he’s still insanely warm. 

“I am here, Y/N.” 

“The others?” 

He gestures to the gate, where Gimli and Aragorn stand with the king, overseeing a group of soldiers attempting to barricade the door. Every few seconds, another deafening crunch resounds through the courtyard. It’s clear that at this point, we’re just waiting for the door to splinter and for it all to be over. 

“How long was I out?” 

“No more than an hour.” 

“An hour?” I feel dizzy. The last time I was knocked unconscious was when I took an arrow in the rib for Boromir. Strangely enough, I don’t really feel that sad when I think of him. Just a weird, bittersweet guilt. “I’ve been out for an hour? How long have you been here?” 

“The whole time.” 

_legolas sat by my side for an hour?_ I try to sit up, but the pain nearly blinds me. Legolas gently pushes me back down. 

“Rest, _melloneg._ You are in no position to help.” 

I remember it, like a lightning strike, and all of a sudden my eyes snap to his. “Is Haldir okay?” 

“Yes,” says Legolas, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “You brought him back from the dead, Y/N.” 

“Oh, good,” I groan, slumping back against the wall. “And I’d do it again.” 

“No, you would not. I would not allow it.” 

“Yeah, you would,” I reply cheekily. “What would you do to stop me, Blondie? Flip your hair at me?” 

“I would find a way,” says Legolas. Outside, the Uruk-Hai roar and batter the door once more. 

“I call bullshit. No, you wouldn’t-- ah--” I moan as the pain in my back intensifies. I can even feel where I got shot, so long ago. “On second thought, maybe you would.” At the look of triumph on Legolas’s face, I interject. “Wait-- wait, wait, no, it’s only ‘cause I’m injured.” I cough. “I could whoop your ass any other day, Barbie.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

“Maybe… later…” 

And as the world caves in around me and I drift into a pleasant sleep, I can’t help but think I’m glad I’m with a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo yo! i just want to clarify smt ab our new word, melloneg!! im sure u all recognize the root, mellon, or friend. here, what legolas has done is added a diminutive suffix, turning it from a word meaning "friend" to an endearing nickname, like "sweetheart" or "honey." i would think of it as the difference between just calling someone ur friend vs gatsby calling nick "old sport." idk if y/n necessarily understands that, but i feel like yall should know lol  
> anyhoo i should probably get to my recommendation?? speaking of gatsby, i recommend baz luhrmann's romeo + juliet. it's a young leo dicaprio movie (he was so cute omg) n im not sure if i recommended this before but it's one of my favorite shakespeare adaptations, like, ever!! it gives us shakespeare in a way that is easy to understand and apply to modern-day. also the dirty jokes hit rly hard in this version lmfao  
> yeah! so thats it i think... leave comments, leave kudos, feel free to chat, hmu anytime... see u later lovely readers! <3


	38. the seeing-stone

I am unsurprised to find myself back in the Realm of Dreams. 

This time, I am by no peaceful riverbank, but in the middle of a battle. Whatever ruin I’m in, the orcs are winning: they have overrun the city and are in the process of picking off soldiers one by one. Overhead, Nazgul riders sweep. 

A familiar face runs past. 

I do a double take, my heart pounding. Could it be? And why is he not with us? 

The figure turns, and I’m disappointed: it’s Faramir, not his brother. So I’m in Osgiliath, then. 

I walk through the ruins. There are Gondorian carcasses piled high on the ground. Blood runs in rivers down the once-white marble. Here, it’s hard to believe we could win Helm’s Deep, let alone the war. 

“I can’t do this, Sam.” 

I turn towards the disembodied voice. Frodo is staring at the ground, grasping the Ring around his neck. Even in the dream, I can feel its pull. But I cannot take it from him here. Were I to touch him, my hand would pass right through. 

“I know,” says Sam sadly. “It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here.” He stumbles to his feet, slumps against a wall. “But we are.” 

I look up. Over the ruined city, the Nazgul continues to circle. 

Sam speaks absently. “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy?” 

It can’t. 

“How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?” 

It won’t. 

“But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come.” 

I shake my head. When I’m through, all of Middle-Earth will look like Osgiliath does now. It’s a difficult thought, and it almost tears me in two. 

But there’s no other way. 

“And when the sun shines…” 

Is there? 

“... it will shine out the clearer.” 

I gasp awake. Somehow, a seed of an idea has planted itself in my mind. If I water it right, it might just grow into a tree. 

\----- 

“Final count… 42,” says Legolas, grinning. 

“42?” Gimli sits on the dead body of an Uruk. “That’s not bad, for a pointy-eared Elvish princeling. I myself am sitting pretty on 43.” 

Legolas’s face drops. 

“Gimli,” I say, laughing, “nothing you do is pretty.” 

Legolas nods in agreement before, in one swift motion, shooting in arrow into the Uruk Gimli is sitting on. “43.” 

“He was already dead.” 

“He was twitching.” 

“He was twitching,” Gimli retorts, “because he has my axe buried in his nervous system!” 

“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding in mock agreement. “Well, I don’t think an argument over _one_ kill matters, boys. No, wait, wait--” I stop them before they can argue back-- “it really doesn’t matter.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Because I killed 51.” 

I laugh at their twin expressions of incredulity. “No, that’s impossible,” says Gimli, and Legolas nods vigorously. “You left the battle before we retreated into the Keep.” 

“Yeah, but I have magic.” 

“I still think that’s cheating,” says Gimli, heaving himself up. 

“Why is it cheating? Is Legolas’s archery cheating? As an elf, he has a natural inclination for the bow. And he’s been honing his skills for-- how long, Legolas?” 

Legolas pulls his arrow from the Uruk corpse. “Two thousand years.” 

“Yeah, two thousand-- wait, _two thousand years?_ For real?” 

“Of course,” says Legolas. 

“Yeah… no. I think I would’ve gotten bored of it by then.” 

Legolas looks at me strangely. “I do not think there is ever a boring minute. Not with you.” 

\----- 

I blink awake. The room is cool, and dark, and there is an odd but pleasant sensation traveling down my back. 

My heart races, and I try to get up, but a warm pair of hands push me back down. “Shh. Do not rise. The battle is over.” The voice is rougher than usual, but unmistakable: it’s the elf. 

“Legolas?” 

“I am here, _melloneg.”_

“How did I get here?” 

“You do not remember?” He sounds concerned. There is a sudden wetness between my shoulder blades, and the ache residing there dulls slightly. “You passed out, Y/N. Right after the battle.” 

“Oh. So why-- ow! Ow, ow, aaaah,” there is an almost unbearable sting along the base of my spine, “aaaah, fuck--” 

“Am I hurting you?” 

“Well, gee, I don’t know, does it sound like it?” 

“Apologies. I am cleaning your wound.” I am suddenly aware of the feeling of my skin exposed to the cool air, the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a strip of cotton fabric wound tightly around my chest, and a short skirt. Goosebumps raise along the back of my arms. “Y/N, I am going to bind your side. You must think about something different to distract you from the pain.” He pauses. “Perhaps you could recite a poem.” 

I lick my lips. “Okay.” 

“You should probably start now,” he says, as a burning sensation grows in my side. I gasp and begin reciting. 

_“ -i love you--_

_all of you,_

_as the sun loves the earth.”_ My breath stutters; the pain ramps up. I feel a tightness in my chest, but I keep going. 

_“our love,_

_my love,_

_is divine: ancient, life-giving,_

_terrible as the day that breathes_

_awe unto the shadows,_

_plentiful as the soil that yields the asphodel,_

_pure as the_

_cloudless afternoon_

_that wheels into a sacred twilight._

_(it is a love_

_so brilliant,_

_so deep,_

_i might have loved you_

_for all the long ages of the universe.)”_

He stops bandaging, fingers brushing over his handiwork. I quiver, feeling him stretch above me. “Do keep going,” he says, and I do. 

_“-your love,_

_my love,_

_the ridges in your hands, the calluses on your fingertips,_

_are home to me._

_milk and honey flow_

_from your lips._

_your eyes are pools of ink,_

_billowing clouds of volcanic ash,_

_and when our eyes meet, i know what it means to stargaze._

_(i find my place lost in your soul._

_i must have loved you in other lives._

_it's like_

_i've known your soul since the beginning of time._

_we said 'til death do us part,_

_but i will love you for all my long lives,_

_'til death do give up.)”_

There is a long while of silence. I relish the feeling of the damp, cool silk he uses to clean my neck, and wonder if he can hear the beating of my heart. As he parts my hair, he gasps. _“Mellon,_ you’re cut.” 

“Is it bad?” 

I can hear him swallow. He brushes the hair off my back; the pad of his thumb drags along the nape of my neck. I shiver. The quiet presses in around me. 

“Legolas,” I repeat, in a warning tone. “Is it bad?” 

He sighs. “You are strong, Y/N. Perhaps too strong for your own good.” 

“So it’s bad.” 

“Well--” 

“Don’t sugar-coat it,” I say, faintly irritated. “I can read your fea-- _mmmmm.”_

“Does that feel good?” He does it again, pressing a salve to the bruised flesh across the greater part of my back, massaging it into my shoulders. 

“Yeah, it feels great. Don’t let it go to your head.” I sigh and lean into his touch. The warmth feels heavenly. God, my shoulders ache. “Why’d you stop?” 

He chuckles. The sound fills the deafening hush of the room. I hear him dip something into a liquid; it drips as he takes it out. “Be grateful for Elven healing, _mellon._ I warn you, this may be painful.” 

“It’s okay, I can take it--” And then my mouth contorts in a horrible scream, and the ache across the center of my back intensifies from a dull throb to searing, blinding, all-encompassing agony faster than I can blink. And just when I think it’ll never end, it rolls away like fog off a lake. I open my eyes, realize I’m white-knuckling Legolas’s hand, let go. He flexes his fingers. Fucking elf. “Legolas,” I sob, my breathing ragged. 

“I know,” he murmurs. The dimness of the room is at once soothing and terrifyingly intimate. There is a faint noise, and I can feel his hair tickle the base of my back, his breath fluttering humid and feverish along my spine. His hand drags up, up, strokes the skin of my left shoulder. “Does this hurt?” 

“No, not anymore.” 

“Good,” he says. 

I’m suddenly self-conscious. I feel like I should be doing something more productive: nursing my idea, for example, the idea! The seed planted in a dream, the one that will be the saving grace of everyone here. I feel it race through my mind, send tingles down my arms and into my fingers. I try to sit up; again, he pushes me down. 

“Do not be hasty,” he says, his voice a rumble near my ear. I can feel his warmth on my neck. His fingers trace my jawline, expertly kneading a bruise. I laugh suddenly: he actually smells like leather and woodsmoke. I just wish I was in a coffeeshop AU, not a horrifying fantasy universe in which I have to manipulate and double-cross everyone here to survive. 

A sigh escapes my lips. The idea bounces around in my head, settles to the bottom with the rest of my worries, evaporates with Legolas’s touch. I can picture him as he bandages my side, brows furrowed in concentration, agile fingers deftly tying a knot. Stupid elf. But I _did_ go and injure myself. 

For now, all I can do is relax. 

\----- 

“Welcome, my lords and lady, to Isengard.” 

I have to stare. They’re sitting in Isengard. Eating. And getting high. 

“You merry rascals! A merry hunt you’ve led us on, and now we find you _feasting,_ and-- and _smoking,”_ says Gimli, right as I say, “Hey, Merry, pass the bread.” 

He tosses me a piece and holds up his pipe. “Want a hit?” 

“No thanks.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Pippin spreads his arms magnanimously, speaking with his mouth full. “We are sitting on a field of victory, enjoying a few well-earned comforts. The salted pork is _particularly_ good.” 

Gimli perks up. “Salted-- salted pork?” 

Gandalf shakes his head. I heard his return was glorious. Too bad I was in the fucking Realm of Dreams. “Hobbits.” 

The others meander off to talk to Treebeard, leaving Merry, Pippin, and I. 

“So,” I say. “Is that pipeweed from the Southfarthing?” 

“Longbottom Leaf,” says Merry. “The finest in Middle-Earth.” 

“Huh.” Maybe just a little. As a treat. “On second thought, pass the joint.” I take a soothing drag, and come up spluttering. Merry and Pippin laugh at me. This stuff is _strong._

I look up at the sky. After all this time, Isengard. What this means is that I’ve made it all the way to Return of the King. I’ve survived this long. 

There is hope on the horizon. 

I can’t give up now. 

Why is my head cold? 

I turn to find my hair sopping wet, and Merry and Pippin with a massive bowl in their hands, looking sheepish. “Did you just pour water on my hair?” 

They exchange a glance. “Er-- yes,” says Pippin, but I can tell he’s lying. 

“Why?” 

“For… reasons.” 

“Oh, well.” Whatever it is, it’s probably harmless. “As long as you didn’t poison me or something.” 

“We should join the others,” says Merry, but it falls on deaf ears. Pippin has caught sight of something flashing in the water. 

“Pippin?” calls Merry, but it’s too late. Pippin is knee-deep in the flood with his hands on the Palantir. 

The Palantir. The idea pulses through my head once more, electric and divine. 

My ticket out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hot bandaging scene? it's more likely than you think!  
> thanks to my wonderful readers for the idea for that scene (you know who u are and i love u for it)  
> poem credits: me lol. pls dont come at me for plugging my own poem lmfao but i couldnt find a good soulmate poem so i wrote this on the fly lol. fun fact the poem is called soulm∞ and i wanted to emphasize the idea of love as a supreme energy or life force, similarly to Sappho’s idea of the divine feminine. if you look closely, you’ll also find Biblical references, mainly to the Song of Solomon: “plentiful as the soil that yields the asphodel” is a nod to Songs 2:1, “the day that breathes/awe unto the shadows” closely resembles Songs 2:17, and the idea of “milk and honey” is reminiscent of the Promised Land, or even Eden: a primordial paradise that was created by the universe to be a hallowed and peaceful refuge that transcends death. also it's kind of similar in format to e. e. cummings's "sweet spring." yeah that's it about the poem i think lol  
> anyway for my media rec, i would like to recommend a youtube channel! for those of u who dont know im kind of a basic bitch which goes to show u can be a smart bimbo! (cough elle woods cough) so anyway i love fashion. the youtube channel is ModernGurlz and they do super cool video essays analyzing fashion trends and also pop culture fashion?? like i didn't know all this thought and psychology went into costume design for teen movies i thought they just went to forever 21 and bought the whole store or sum lol  
> yeah so thats it i think! drop a comment cause as always i love chatting with yall. see u soon lovely readers! :)


	39. drinks!

“How about… this?” 

I glance at the dress Eowyn is holding up before I look back down at the blanket I’m fiddling with. “Ehhh… no.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not my color.” 

“Y/N,” she says, sighing, “you’ve said that about every dress.” 

“Because it’s true about every dress! Do we really have to do this?” Don’t get me wrong, I would love to put on a pretty dress and go to a party. But I feel guilty for many reasons, one being that I didn’t take the chance to use the Palantir. 

“Are you going to wear bloody armor to the king’s feast?” 

“Touche,” I say, but my head is still elsewhere. I missed my chance. I really missed my chance to grab the Palantir. Now I have to wait. 

“Why can you not just make your own dress? I hear you made a scepter.” 

“No, I turned my sword into a scepter. The sword is Elvish, it has a soul. I can’t just make things out of thin air.” 

“Well, you will wear the next dress I select for you.” She cracks a mischievous grin. “Perhaps I can get Legolas to finally--” 

“Not happening.” 

She sighs. “It was worth a shot, as you say. Here.” She hands me a dress. “Put this on.” 

“Is this going to fit me?” 

“Yes. It fit my mother. She had a similar frame to yours.” 

“I--” 

“Y/N.” Eowyn grabs both my hands. “The battle is over. Tonight is a night for celebration, for relaxation. You need not worry.” She shakes her head. “You have too much going on in your mind. Forget, just for one night, and you will find yourself stronger on the other side.” 

“You’re right,” I admit. “Maybe this’ll help.” 

“It will,” she agrees, and then she puts a mug into my hands. I take a whiff: spiced mead. “And so will this.” 

“Pre-drinks? Really?” I take a long sip. “Wow. This is really good.” 

“Good. Now change!” 

I do as she says, allowing the dress to fall over me in soothing drapes of fabric. The cloth is cool and smooth on the bruises that travel up my back and mottle my shoulder in ugly purple spots. It’s worth it. It’s all worth it, because Haldir is still alive. 

The movies showed the battle itself: wizards charging in on horses, elves sliding down staircases on shields, acts of valor and power. But they didn’t show the aftermath. They didn’t tell me how I would shiver as I scrubbed blood out of my hair, from behind my ears, from under my fingernails. How it runs in neverending rivulets of brown, staining the bathwater. How bruises ache and how cuts burn as they’re cleaned. 

_Relax,_ said Eowyn, but how can I? How can I relax after such an ordeal? 

I study my reflection. I’ve changed since I arrived. I have more muscle tone; my hair has grown considerably longer. I have a wary look somewhere in the lines of my face, an unnerving sureness in my walk. Here, it is normal. But if I returned home, I would probably be mistaken for a war veteran. 

I guess I _am_ a war veteran. 

“You look wonderful,” says Eowyn sincerely. “I’m going to braid your hair. I think these will fit.” She passes me a pair of slippers with soft soles: there are no rubber soles in Middle-Earth. I slip them on. There are bruises around my ankles and blisters on my heels. I can see a crescent of dirt in my toenails that I couldn’t scrub out. 

“Did your hair grow?” 

“Since the beginning of the war? Yes.” 

“Ah, no, I meant that your hair has grown since last I saw you.” 

I frown. “It’s been, like… a day. There’s no way.” 

“And yet my eyes see it. We cut your hair before the battle, remember? And now it reaches your waist.” 

“What?” I look back in the mirror. Sure enough, my hair hangs just past my waist. “Oh, no. This won’t do.” I reach for Ilthaniel. 

“Are you _cutting it?_ Don’t!” says Eowyn. “It looks beautiful!” But she’s too late: I’ve already hacked off a solid 6 inches of hair, and now it hits mid-boob. 

Oops. Now I kind of regret it. Maybe I should have left a little more. 

Eowyn can read the regret on my face, I guess, because she says, “I’ll braid it as the Elves do, and you will look magnificent. You’ll see.” 

“No, wait, I don’t want to look like Legolas!” As soon as I say it, I know it’s a mistake. Eowyn grins. 

“You speak of him a lot for someone who claims to hate him.” 

“Okay, fine,” I grumble. “Braid my hair if you want.” I already miss my long hair. 

I find myself making a lot of mistakes lately. I feel a bloom of pride in my chest whenever I think of Haldir-- I _brought him back from the dead--_ but now I’m second-guessing myself. The cost was so high. And a display of power like that will certainly pit me against many powerful figures here. Not to mention that I don’t know if it changed the plot of the story for better or for worse. 

_no._ This isn’t a time for second-guessing or uncertainty. I have to move with purpose and confidence. If I have to play this entire dimension like it’s chess, so be it. 

“Are you ready?” 

I don’t even check my reflection in the mirror. I look great. I feel great. I _am great._

I square my shoulders. 

“Ready.” 

\----- 

I wasn’t ready. 

Literally not a step out the door, and I rushed back in to check my appearance and make sure the braids were intact (they were; Daenerys Targaryen who? Never heard of her) and that my hair hadn’t mysteriously grown anymore (it had, but I was secretly glad). Feeling _pretty_ is easy, and something I can keep up. Feeling _beautiful_ is harder. 

The Golden Hall of Edoras is alight. A thousand torches blaze; the light glints off of brazier rims and mead cups and barrels of ale. A lamb is roasting on a spit, and the tables groan under the weight of so much food. 

Theoden stands, and the Hall quiets. He raises his goblet. “Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!” 

The crowd roars. I look over at Eowyn, who is watching Aragorn. She turns back to me, cheeks bright red. 

“Go get him, girl,” I say, and she tilts her head. 

“Will you be alright on your own?” 

“Yes!” I push her gently. “Go!” 

As luck would have it, I’m not on my own for long. 

“So, what,” I joke to the Elvish prince who sits down beside me, “we’re just inviting ourselves over now?” 

He takes a sip out of his goblet. “It would seem so.” 

“I feel like you should ask permission.” 

He starts to say something, then pauses and stands back up. “May I sit here?” 

“Yeah, whatever,” I say, laughing. “I didn’t mean it literally.” 

“Ah.” He nods. “I thought so, but one can never be too sure.” 

Eomer joins us at the table, grabbing a leg of turkey from the platter in the middle. “If it isn’t my favorite member of the Fellowship.” 

“See, now we don’t know which of us he means,” I tell Legolas. “Guess it’ll have to be decided by a duel to the death.” 

“I’ve had quite enough of death,” he says, and then all three of us are quiet. The image of the outer wall of Helm’s Deep, floor strewn with dead elves, is burned into my brain. I examine my fingernails and find a speck of blood in the webbing between my pinky and ring finger. I pick it out. 

“So,” I say, breaking the awkward silence. It’s hard to speak. It’s hard to move. Every so often, a fresh wave of anxiety washes over me, settling into a horrible pit in my gut, as if my body still thinks I should be in combat mode. “Which one of us is actually your favorite?” 

“You, of course,” says Eomer. “In Rohan, we do not have much use for elves.” 

Haldir sits on the other side of me. “You speak brazenly, Eomer, but you forget: the battle would have been forfeit had it not been for our forces.” 

“Would it really?” I say. “I’d like to remind everyone that _I have magic._ Not to brag or whatever, but I’m pretty powerful, if I do say so myself.” I pop a berry into my mouth. “Which I do.” 

“Even magic has its limits,” says Haldir softly. His tone is suddenly grave; I turn to him, alarmed. He places a hand on my shoulder. “You gave much for me, Y/N. I owe you my life. _Guren glassui;_ I thank you from my heart.” 

I smile and look away. “Friendship is worth all the fea magic I can give.” 

All four of us chuckle nervously, then a stiff silence descends over the group once more. 

“Yes, it is always this difficult.” 

I startle and look at Legolas. “What?” 

“After a battle. Somehow, one feels as if you are still fighting. Relax, _mellon.”_

He’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. “Well, thank you for your brilliant input,” I grumble. “Gee, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Just relax.” 

“Words cannot express how glad my heart is to know that you appreciate my help,” retorts Legolas snarkily. I realize-- with equal parts horror and delight-- that all the malice has gone out of our teasing. I frown. 

“Well, I am certainly glad to see that some things never change,” interrupts Aragorn, apparently having escaped Eowyn. “You two will continue to use sarcasm to dance around your feelings until all Arda comes to an end, I’m sure.” 

“What sarcasm?” I ask, just as Legolas says innocently, “The Prince of the Woodland Realm? Sarcastic? Never!” 

Aragorn raises his eyebrows. 

“Truly, _mellon._ I cannot believe that you think so lowly of me,” says Legolas. 

“None of this is sarcasm. I just like annoying Blondie here,” I add. It’s as much for my own benefit as Aragorn’s, and neither of us really believe it. 

The thing is, I can’t help but feel guilty. Firstly, I can’t do-- whatever this is, not here. I owe it to myself and I owe it to Boromir’s memory. The second thing is that I’m kind of about to betray the entire Fellowship, make a deal with Sauron using my powers as a bargaining chip, and destroy all of Middle-Earth so that I can get home. 

But all I say is, “Anyway, I need a drink. Or, like, ten.” 

“Rohirrim mead is strong,” warns Eomer. I laugh this off. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll stop before I hit my limit. Who else wants what?” 

\----- 

Eomer hands Legolas a full mug. “No pauses. No spills.” 

“And no regurgitation,” adds Gimli. The men laugh, raise their cups. 

“So,” says Legolas hesitantly, “it’s a drinking game?” 

A resounding cheer. “Aye!” 

“Last one standing wins,” says Gimli. 

I drain my goblet to the dredges. “Be careful, boys,” I say, hiccuping slightly. There’s a warm and fuzzy feeling all over my body. What was I so anxious about again? 

“What shall we drink to?” asks someone, and someone responds, “Let’s drink to victory!” 

“To victory!” I crow, with all the other soldiers. Gimli downs his drink in almost one gulp without stopping to breathe once. Legolas sniffs his drink suspiciously before sipping at it. His brows furrow at the bitter taste. 

“Nothing like Elvish wine, huh, Blondie?” I laugh. There’s a pleasant tingly sensation in my head. I’m really sleepy. 

“He can’t hold it down, likely,” agrees Gimli. 

“Y/N,” says Legolas, “I think that you should stop drinking.” 

Am I drunk? Maybe a little tipsy, but that’s okay. It’s for the nerves. Besides, I spend all my time being stressed. I think I should be allowed to let loose. Plus, I’m analytical enough to monitor my own drinking. Still, I should shut up before I embarrass myself. Although I’m probably also smart enough to not embarrass myself. 

“‘Cause he’s so used to his little fruity drinks,” I say absently. My words are slightly slurred. “He probably spent a third of his time drinking that, a third of his time using trees as target practice, and the last third brushing his hair.” 

Legolas dusts off his silver shirt. “I did not.” 

“Did, too,” I say. “There’s- _hic,_ no way you’re lasting ten drinks. I give him five before he throws up. And eight before he completely blacks out.” 

“I would not be so sure of that,” chuckles Gandalf, shaking hands with Aragorn. What are they shaking hands about? It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything is golden and happy and everyone here is hot. I want to dance. Where are the hobbits? They’re always a party. 

It dawns on me that I’m drunk. Huh. I blink. I thought I would be chatty and fun, but I’m just even quieter than usual. This is hilarious, which I tell Aragorn. 

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s funny now, but you will find no humor in it tomorrow morning. I recommend you stop drinking.” 

“You’re not my dad,” I say, sipping again. Maybe he’s right. I should probably shut up before I embarrass myself. Didn’t I already think of that? And is that Gandalf? “Oh, hello, Gandalf.” 

“Right,” says Gandalf, raising an eyebrow. 

“I mean,” I say, the _shutting up before I embarrass myself_ going out the window, “I never ever ever got drunk before I ended up here. Which, in my opinion, is very funny because I thought Middle-Earth would be super boring but it’s not! Because I’m stressed all the time ‘cause I have to plan everyone’s lives, so drinks, of course.” 

Aragorn snatches my drink. “That’s quite enough.” 

“Okay,” I say. 

He pushes a cup of water into my hands. “Drink this. And count yourself lucky that you get _drowsy_ after mead, not boisterous or angry.” 

I take a long sip of water. It’s cold and delicious, and I lean into the balmy air. Gimli is surrounded by empty mugs: twenty, at least. I got drunk off only three. Maybe four. How is he still alive? He belches loudly and cackles. “It’s the Dwarves that go swimming with little, hairy women.” 

Legolas finishes his tenth. They’re all still alive? I finish my water, reach for another glass. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about the fact that I will be severely hungover tomorrow morning. But there’s a mellow glow across my vision. I think the effects of the alcohol are peaking. Maybe I should’ve had more to eat before drinking. Too bad there’s no such thing as a medieval breathalyzer. I try to estimate my BAC-- my frame is small-ish in comparison to the drinks I had, wait, how many drinks did I have? What did I eat beforehand, anyway? The numbers blur together in my mind, and I can’t concentrate. No use. My whole body feels like it’s asleep, all tingly and prickly. I should sit down. 

Suddenly, Legolas freezes. His eyes widen. He looks like a deer in headlights. “I feel something.” 

Eomer raises his eyebrows in incredulity, watching the princeling examine his hands in fear. 

“A slight tingling in my fingers.” Pure terror overtakes his face, his shoulders rise, and his whole body tenses up. “I think it’s affecting me.” 

“See?” Gimli slams his drink down triumphantly. “Wha’did I say. He can’t hold his liquor.” Without warning, his eyes cross, and he falls backwards, unconscious. 

“Oh, Eru,” I mumble, the slur coming out of my voice. “Gimli-- really? No one’s concerned?” 

“Game over,” says Legolas, shrugging. Gandalf and Aragorn exchange pipeweed in the back-- oh, so that’s what it was about. I look down at the dwarf, who is now snoring loudly. The looking down disorients me, and I stumble slightly. 

“Will he be okay?” In the corner, Merry and Pippin are dancing on a table and singing. _“But the only brew for the brave and truuuuue, comes from the Green Dragon!”_

_“He_ will be fine. I am more worried about you. Let’s get out of here.” 

I get the faint impression that if I had my wits about me, I wouldn’t trot complacently after the elf. But I still have a _lot_ of alcohol in my bloodstream, so I follow him, no questions asked. 

Which, naturally, is a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to dedicate this to once upon a thyme for 1) reminding me to post lol, and 2) for having the the coolest username <3 ily!  
> so originally this chapter (and its aftermath) didnt exist in my story. HOWEVER i felt that there should be at least one drunk scene in every slow burn, i thought it would be funny to take Cold and Calculating Character (TM) and make her the opposite (notice how she still thinks she's being quiet and dangerous lmfaooo), and also i couldn't not do the drinking game scene. stan the drinking game scene for clear skin  
> ok i have to stop here lol. sorry for the lack of recs but i am concussed (celine and morgan already know) and spending time on my laptop is probably very Not Smart lmfao so leave comments!! i love yall!! see u soon lovely readers :))))


	40. almost

I watch Y/N as she leans over the balcony, stretching onto her toes and breathing in the cool night air. She glances back at me, and I hastily look away. 

“Don’t pretend,” she says, smirking slightly. The moon casts a mellow silvery radiance over her face. “You were looking at me. I can read your aura, stupid.” 

After two thousand years in Middle-Earth, one thing I know is that those with powers like those Y/N possesses are the most treacherous. Yet somehow, she does not seem evil or even dangerous. In the moonlight, she is delicate, glowing; a moonlily in bloom. 

I am fated to end up by her side. She is my soulmate, the perfect match to my _fea._ Perhaps when this is all over, I will tell her. But not here. Not now. She is still inebriated, and we are fighting a losing war. I remember the blood as it soaked through her bandages, her scream, the way she gripped my hand. I wish that she never has to endure such pain again. This, of course, is up to Frodo and Sam. So much rides on the backs of two small Hobbits. 

She said “I love you.” It was part of a poem. But I let it play through my head again, and again, and again. It tasted like honey coming from her tongue. 

This is the first time that it dawns on me, hits me with all the force of a dying star: I love Y/N. 

I am not _in love,_ there was no _falling_ involved, it simply _is._ It is, and it always will be. And I know that the Valar will it so. 

What a strange epiphany: an Elf and a daughter of Man under the stars on a balcony in Rohan, both having had too much to drink. I am not drunk; Rohirrim ale is not half as strong as Elvish wine. But I feel the same euphoria as if I were. 

_For you, melloneg, I would change the world. I would let Middle-Earth burn._

I feel ashamed as soon as I think it. Y/N would never think such a thing. She is good, and pure. 

“You are so selfless,” I wonder aloud, my voice hardly a whisper. She is not meant to hear it. Yet she does. 

“Don’t say that,” she mumbles, looking away. There is still the slightest slur to her voice, the scent of spiced mead and sweet fruit on her breath. 

“But you are,” I reply sincerely. “You healed Haldir, despite the fact that it almost killed you. You showed concern for Gimli. And you tried to heal-” 

“-Don’t,” she says. The moon is bright. Her eyes have welled up. By some means unknown to me, we have ended up an arrow’s length away. 

Her hand comes up, grips the hem of my sleeve; my wrist grazes her bare arm where the short drape of her dress does not reach. She almost looks like an elf in the light. She could be Sindar royalty: my silver shirt, her silver dress. The braids of her hair and mine. The white embroidery across her chest, so close I could touch it. I picture her in the jewels of my people; white starlight across her brow, on the slender fingers, hanging on the silky-smooth skin just below her collarbone. Her hand drifts upwards, splays across my shoulder. Her caress is fire-hot and feathery and wonderfully familiar. My chest rises and falls erratically. She is staring at me as if she has never seen me before; her eyes are alight with honeyed flame. My gaze drifts down to her lips, which are now parted; my hand comes to brush her cheek, she leans up and I lean down-- 

_No._

I cannot. I wrench away and it pains me; instantly, I miss the warmth of her touch. But I cannot. We cannot. Not here, not now. For it would not be right: I am two thousand years old, old enough to know better; she has had enough to drink that she does not. 

I look back at her. On the balcony, she looks small. Silver fabric pools around her shoulders, across her chest, at her feet. Her eyes are hurt and confused, an attractive flush across her cheeks. 

I look down. _“Goheno nin,”_ I say, and I am. I am sorry. 

“Why?” she asks. Her voice is as tiny as she looks. 

“You are drunk, _melloneg.”_

“I am not,” she says petulantly, but she stumbles slightly and yawns as she walks towards me. 

“You should rest,” I say, and lead her inside. We walk in silence, hearing the sounds of the festivities as they wind down echo in the hallway. I know how this looks: I, tall and Elvish and self-sure, and she, wavering in her step, smaller than I am, both of us heading to her bedchambers. But those who know the Sindar know that we are proud, and moral, and just. She will come to no harm with me. 

As soon as we step into her chamber, she sways, falls into her bed. I pull the blankets over her. _“Losto vae,_ sleep well.” 

“Mmmkay,” she hums, and then her eyelids flutter closed and her breathing evens out. I watch her for a moment, and then I turn and leave. I cannot stand there, guarding her. It is wrong. She is not mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil laughter*


	41. a faustian bargain

I awake at early dawn. 

There’s no point going back to sleep. A twinge in the back of my mind, some form of wanderlust, forces me out of bed despite the splitting headache and terrible hangover. Standing is hard; walking is harder. My head swims, feet padding softly on the cool stone of the floor, carrying me outside. 

Two figures stand on the deck, conversing, hoods drawn. I gasp, heart pounding, and duck behind a column. 

My mind races, calculating, analyzing. From behind me, one of the figures says, “The stars are veiled.” Legolas. I think back to last night. Humiliation washes over me, sickening and terrible, and I panic. What do I do? What do I say? My head is throbbing. I feel faint. Act like I was so drunk I don’t remember anything. Wait, no. Just act super hungover and hope he forgets it. No, that’s worse. Just… be natural? That’s not much of a plan, but it’s the best thing I have. 

“The eye of the Enemy is moving.” 

_fuck!_ I give it maybe thirty seconds before I have to be inside to grab the Palantir from Pippin. I have to mentally prepare myself. Sauron will search my mind-- push down the idea, Y/N, push it down, hide it so he’ll never find it. Prepare answers. What’s my name? Y/N. Where am I from? An alternate dimension. I’m here to help Sauron. No. I’m here to strike a bargain. Better. Shit, shit, shit, what else? What’s in it for me? Going home. I heard from Galadriel that there was a key in Mount Doom. Let me in, I’ll take myself home, leave the dimensional rift open for you. Give you my power and whatever else you want as long as I can be safe. With my family. And friends. Wait, no, take whatever you want from my dimension, just leave Earth alone. And completely unharmed. There. 

The idea rises to the top of my mind again, stubbornly. I shove it down, try to forget it. 

“He is here.” 

Fuck, shit, fuck, I race inside, see Pippin with both his hands on the Palantir, shove down the idea, watch him sink to his knees, convulse. Shit, Y/N, try to act concerned. “Pippin!” I cry, snatching the Palantir. 

Pain. 

Blazing, consuming, scorching pain; I feel my skin blister and burn and char and blow away like ashes. My headache has gone from splitting to completely unbearable. I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming. I am engulfed in flames, and from the fire, a great Eye leaps, and all around me, a voice rumbles, pierces my mind clean in half. 

_Who dares trespass here?_

I can feel him in my mind, frantically build barriers. _y/n. it’s y/n._

_What is your purpose?_

_i am here to strike a bargain._ I push my terms to the top of my mind: I heard from Galadriel, the key, power, giving, safe. Family. Home. Unharmed. 

A pause. The pain grows, swells, reaches a crescendo. I shriek. 

And then it vanishes, and I see his purpose. 

I gasp. 

He will allow me inside Mount Doom. I can have the key, but I have to take the Ring from Frodo, ensure it isn’t destroyed. I have to… 

I have to do it before the sun is in the middle of the sky, or I die. 

Well, that certainly puts a damper on things. _so do we have a deal?_

_Yes--_

The Palantir is wrenched from my hands. I collapse to the floor, sweating and shuddering. 

It is done. 

\----- 

“There was no lie in Pippin’s eyes.” 

The Hobbits are being babysat by Eomer. The rest of us are in the Golden Hall, speaking to Theoden. I wrap my blanket tighter around my shoulders and shiver. I keep half-expecting to look down at my hands and see that they are burned away. Legolas moves closer to me. I shift away awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. 

“A fool, but an honest fool he remains. He told Sauron nothing of Frodo and the Ring.” 

Now that Sauron’s scrutiny of my mind is over, I can allow my idea to manifest, to develop. I can begin to flesh out details and form a plan. The next few weeks will involve a lot of manipulation and probably a good amount of magic as well. But if nothing else, I’m good at being manipulative. 

“We’ve been strangely fortunate.” Gandalf turns to look at Theoden. “What Pippin saw in the Palantir was a glimpse of our enemy’s plan.” 

And this time, there will be no distractions. Legolas is out of the question. And Boromir is in the ground where he belongs. 

Quietly, Eomer enters with the two Hobbits. 

“Sauron moves to strike at the city of Minas Tirith. His defeat at Helm’s Deep showed our enemy one thing.” 

I think ahead. I will have a minute window of opportunity, a moment where the Ring and the Key converge. If I don’t act fast, I’m dead, along with the rest of Middle-Earth. I have guaranteed passage into Mount Doom. Inside, I have to find the Key, then take the Ring and destroy it. 

No. By taking the Ring, I put myself at risk. Frodo, by then, will be consumed by it. He might try to harm me. And if he doesn’t, Gollum certainly will. I will not resort to murdering Frodo. This plan needs to be foolproof. 

What if I pushed Gollum in? 

“The heir of Elendil has come forth. Men are not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still-- strength enough left to challenge him.” 

The other members of the Fellowship must know nothing of this. No one can know anything that might tip Sauron off. I have to distance myself from them-- from all of them. 

This includes Legolas. 

Two rules, then: _1) don’t be stupid, stupid, and,_

 _2) no falling in love with the prince of mirkwood._

“Sauron fears this,” says Gandalf, warningly. “He will not risk the peoples of Middle-Earth uniting under one banner. He will raze Minas Tirith to the ground before he sees the return of the King.” 

I realize that for my plan to work, the armies of Mordor must be distracted. This means I have to make sure that the Fellowship and their allies have a fighting chance. Every step must be pre-planned, calculated. And I cannot assume anything; fate changes constantly just because of my presence. I have to puppeteer all the most powerful figures in Middle-Earth. 

How do I influence the will of a king? 

Inception: plant an idea in their head in its most fundamental form. Let it blossom. Let him think he came up with it. 

Things that need to happen: 

Rohan needs to aid Gondor. This happens in the book, but I need to make sure that the beacons are lit, and that Theoden is ready to respond to the call. 

Answer: Eowyn and Eomer, the tickets to Theoden’s mind. Plant the idea, convince them. The king will follow. 

Aragorn needs to summon the armies of the undead. Elrond will probably take care of this for me. Still, I’ll try to reach him in the Realm of Dreams or something. I just need to time it so that both of us are there at the same time. Which means I need to master traveling through the Dream Realm. 

“If the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready for war.” 

Theoden holds Gandalf’s gaze. I frown. The king seems resolute; maybe he’ll take more convincing than I thought. How do I convince him that it’s his decision? 

The answer rises to the top of my mind. It’s a low blow. But it’s necessary. 

“Tell me,” says Theoden, “why should we ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours?” 

I think that’s all I can do to strengthen the Fellowship. 

No, wait-- Haldir is still alive. 

What if I give them the armies of the Elves? 

I can’t influence Galadriel. That’s out of even _my_ league. I can, however, try to influence Haldir. Of course, this banks on the idea that Haldir is powerful enough that the armies of Lothlorien will follow him. 

Maybe I can give them Mirkwood? 

That’s something worth noting, but I have no Mirkwood connections except Legolas. I don’t think Thranduil would like me very much: the insolent, outsider human girl who came to seduce his son and heir. He didn’t even like Tauriel. I doubt he would be fine with me. 

Still. Tauriel was popular; maybe she still has pull. I could visit her in a dream, or send a message. Maybe she would help because Frodo is a direct descendant of Bilbo. Or maybe she’d help for old times’ sake, for any sisterly love that remains for Legolas. And Thranduil isn’t a lost case either. His wife died fighting orcs, maybe that’s a bargaining chip? 

“What do we owe Gondor?” finishes Theoden. 

Aragorn speaks lowly and urgently. “I will go.” 

“No!” exclaim Gandalf and I, in tandem. Aragorn has to be here, to set Theoden in motion. And Pippin must meet Denethor. This way, Faramir will be saved, and Denethor will die. Stupid fucking Steward of Gondor. I just _know_ he would get in my way. 

“They must be warned,” argues Aragorn. 

“They will be. You must come to Minas Tirith by another road.” Gandalf lowers his voice, speaks cryptically. “Follow the river. Look to the black ships. Understand this, things are now in motion that cannot be undone.” 

Things are now in motion, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiii'm back, babeyy! (somehow "babey" just has more ~spice~ than "baby" i'm right and i should say it)   
> the only thing harder to write than extremely calculating reader or extremely emotional reader is when reader is switching at breakneck speeds between the two. like i know i'm the one writing u, y/n, but PICK A PERSONALITY JFC  
> for today's media rec, uhh. so this is a little unconventional. but this is an original poem by one of u lovely people!! :D (hehehe i told u i would include it) this is "to be a panda" by celine and brandon, and it goes as follows:  
>  _oh to be a panda  
>  oh to be a panda  
> oh to be a panda without worries and animation homework  
> oh to be a panda without math and french homework  
> sigh to be a panda is the greatest blessing of them all  
> this is a poem  
> sigh to be a panda_  
> as we can tell, a breathtaking poem full of emotional ups and downs. the authors really did a great collaborative job of portraying yearning here. i think i speak for all of us when i say we have all once longed to be a panda.  
> leave comments so i can chat with yall!! :)))) i luv yall and see u soon, lovely readers!!


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